


Petite Venin

by TwistedNym



Series: Halfway Lies, Halfway Truth [1]
Category: Red Queen Series - Victoria Aveyard
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bugs & Insects, Family, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Not a Love Story, Spiders, Toxic Relationships, canon compliant with a touch freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 119,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedNym/pseuds/TwistedNym
Summary: 'ɪ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴠɪᴘᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴀᴍꜱᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱɴᴀᴋᴇ.'Many eyed, venomous- House Viper are animosi. When Daliah Viper returns to her family after an unfortunate series of bad luck and flawed decisions, she doesn't know yet things will significantly change.Recovering from blows and trying to reconnect and find her footing again, she'll have to make peace with another kind of association all together in the form of her fiance .  In a political climate as hot and a court full of liars though, both of them have to make due with what they were given. Sometimes you have to pick your poison.





	1. Cadre de Vie

**Author's Note:**

> This was a collab I got ghosted on so I get to claim it on my own it seems. Still working on all the other updates Q_Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All of this was pretty much drafted and written in one/two weeks and will go through another revision with my beta again. She only checks canon and bad obvious mistakes for now. Writing first POV is new for me as is OCs but I try my best. Also..I may be taking some liberty in between canon lore- we will see how freeformy it gets.
> 
> update: The first chapter is now two with additional content and the summary and tags have been changed :)

_un cadre de vie - quality of life, living conditions_

* * *

_**A**_ spider creeps down the hallway. Barely larger than a thumb, brown hair turned orange in the tinted light.

The spider dawdles. What a weird observation. How does a spider dawdle, after all? It sits and stops, studying things with uncharacteristic interest.

It ponders at doors, hides between dust particles that rain and wander through the house. Below the side of a camera watching a window and door with unblinking eyes.

The house is big, and the spider is small.

The spider leaps over a staircase, each step force from legs. Agile, silent, slipping through a dark wooden doorstep on a warm July morning.

Cold air circulates through the room. The air conditioning works on highest level and power to make that sure it stays that way. Electricity buzzes through powerlines. The spider feels the way it all vibrates. It feeds off this sense of knowledge. The legs are moving relentlessly. Work their way through all the information vibrating through the tiny body.

In its own unobtrusive way, the perfect spectator.

How does a spider see?

The set of its side eyes are the ones taking in the figures at a table now, on the other side of the door. A blurry, strange side, filled with wide angled, big figures. Men, women, and a girl, all dressed in green that blinks inside the spider's sight. They haven't noticed the spider yet, because their eyes are following a massive pile of fur coated bodies.

Below the table dogs snarl and yelp. Wild and harsh creatures. The spider slowly moves away because the dogs can easily kill it. It feels that, just as it feels the anger of the dogs. That anger vibrates through the earth, through the wood and stone that has build this room.

It is human anger. Nothing instinctual, not like the way the spider wants to hunt.

Sharp teeth yellow, white foam has formed on the dogs nuzzles. They bare fangs. Every fang is bigger than the spider's whole body.

The dogs could sleep under the breakfast table filled with glittering white and silver dishes. But one of the people on the table chooses not to let them. Ugly brute creatures, so much bigger than the spider is.

Their ears are flat, their fur is bristling. Their tails give away the pressure and the energy.

The girl does not move. That is why the spider sees the dogs so much better than her. Hands clenched around a plate, legs firm on the ground.

A spider does not care for servants. It does not care for any human being as long as it does stay far away from hunting grounds.

This spider intends to keep it that way. The fine legs move along the edges of the dogs. Creeping careful not to get under any boot, maneuvering through the room until it has rounded up the figures on the table.

Spiders do not have ears.

They still detect every word around them.

"She is late," a low, deep voice booms and shudders along with the fine hairs that sit on the spider's legs. The spider locks their eyes on them now.

The blurry, side angled view changes, and suddenly everything is clear and in color.

Movement is detected as the man lifts his fork, silver glittering in light falling through the windows. He sits at the head of the table. He is the owner of the dogs. The spider rubs its legs at his sight.

Next to him sits a man similar in age and attire, but the spider senses less anger, less of everything.

"She is not late," A higher female voice, young and thrilling, dangerous like birdsong to the spider.

On the screen behind her in the wall, the spider registers some flickering images, flashing crimson, deep black. The colors are irritating. They aren't something the spider can process and realize easily. Instead, the eyes are locked on the dark-haired girl. On the way she swats at the air, sleeve hitting the air like strings that sing to the spider's senses.

„Being late would insinuate she will come out of her room. Just let her be. I don't need her anyway. Everyone keeps calling her by that ghastly name. Merry widow."

The other older man does not have a booming voice.

A spider knows no father. Still, something inside the small body reacts to the voice of the man.

„She is your cousin, Atara, and you'll need every bit of assistance you can get the next weeks."

The dogs lurk, snap at the girl moving cluttering plates, and the spider stays wary. Another darker voice snickers for itself when the dogs' paws crush over the ground. A clapping sound that ripples through the hairs on its legs.

„Assistance? I know every bit of protocol, and it is still two weeks until Queenstrial. Loren, stop." Long dark hair shakes along with her head when she speaks. „You'll just make a mess."

The dogs' yelp and snarl another time. The girl in grey has let go of a plate. Everything splatters over the ground. Liquid floods the floorboards. A drop for a human, a waterfall for a spider. With a heavy leap, the spider jumps to the side. Seeking shelter behind a cupboard filled with glittering metal that the small animal can't comprehend. Medals, trophies, honored gifts, memories.

„I told you to stop, Loren. You're an idiot." The girl crosses her arms. Another figure on the table moves lazily in the sunshine, the spider rubs its legs again. Loren, she says. The spider wants to bite him, attack him.

„Atara," the older man with the softer voice says. "You know how the traditions are. Daliah is free of all allegations and cleared of all charges again. And you need a female company after the trial has happened, whoever gets chosen for both the princes at it. You'll be a guest of honor. She can be useful. Train with her. Talk to her. Let her accompany you to the palace."

The spider decides to slowly retreat into the shadows. It doesn't like the fact that many dark shoes and boots fit under a table, and the dogs are close too.

Now that the distraction has passed, the spider doesn't want to test the luck.

No need expose yourself, no need to get smashed.

Or worse.

The girl named Atara stares at it a moment.

Her eyes are as green as all the fabric they wear, silk strings for spiders and humans, as it seems.

The spider scurries away from her eyes.

It sits behind the metal pole of the cupboard, silent and lurking.

After a moment, it starts to creep back through the house, a long way back for a small creature.

In the darkness of another room, shutters and blinds tightly closed, I sit on a soft cushion.

My eyes are half-closed, and I breathe slow.

Reading your surroundings and making sense of sounds from the perspective of a spider is fascinating and artful. My jumping spider has excellent senses and I was lucky to not have any of my kin exposing my little trick.

It isn't like my ghost flies through the air and occupies the animals. I am still very much in my own head. But I still control and manipulate it, and it lets me read the world through its eyes.

Animosi get called animal scryers, but it isn't exactly a sight. It is their sense, their understanding of their environment. They are different from humans in what they feel vibrating through the air.

And benefiting my action is that I know where to step here.

Imagining this trick pulled in a bigger scheme is harder.

Not that I won't try.

My own body moves up now, swipes over my dark sleeves. In the darkness and dim light, everything is grey and black. A monochromatic world, when even spiders can see in colors somehow.

Merry widow.

I huff out a breath.

Indeed a ghastly name, considering the story and inclination behind it. A laughing, dancing widow.

I am a formidable dancer, but I don't laugh that often anymore.

And no one would ask me to dance.

Atara was not wrong about the way people treat me since I have returned.

But she is not completely right.

There is an invitation to Daliah Viper brought over from someone wearing silver and black.

My dress shifts and rustles on my body when I make it to the door.

I leave a short apology, nothing big, nothing substantial, all courtesy.

Giving a strand of my hair one last tug, I follow the hallway until the staircase.

The big door made of heavy wood lies to my right.

I step down, skirt ushering over the ground and make my way to the other side. Warmth flows over my skin, gets drawn to the black of my clothes by the sun. My skin already tingles and will burn if I am not careful.

I will not join my kin on the table. They'll see me soon enough again.


	2. Renewal

_renewal_

_-to make like new_ _**:** _ _restore to freshness, vigor, or perfection_

_-to begin again_

* * *

**_E_** arth gets swirled by the vehicles. The streets are in good shape around the estates and the Hall of the Sun. The further you travel through the province, the worse it gets, they say. Mud and dirty faces and red blood, that is all there is.

Lucky for me, my way is not so long. I only travel the safe road through the early day.

It turns out that is still more than enough time to make my palms clammy with salty sweat and my throat dried out.

Dust settles in a fine layer over my exposed skin and the stiff black fabric of my dress when I step out.

If there ever was a blatant clear statement about money, this house would make it through its size alone. I look bland and cheap in all my dusted black and tousled strands of hair. I get directed through a gate. As most houses and cities, there are security measures. As well as the pretty reflection of glass hard enough to let bullets not penetrate through it.

When no one is looking, I smooth over my dress.

I get directed further, follow a pathway through something lush, green and organized.

In the end, hold myself sitting upright in the shadow of a tree. Smaller shadows tickle down like fingers when the branches sway up and down.

The chair stands safely on stone, but my toes curl together in my shoes under the hem of my skirt. The glass surface of the table gleams in the light reflected.

Life brims around me through the snarling noise of a very large animal in the distance. A predator, no doubt, one of a few. Silk fur and sharp teeth, silent paws. And if I lift my head up to the tree, I am sure my eyes will find fast wings and quick eyes.

Claws, and feathers, waiting to be sent flying, hunting, and circling.

I am not the mistress of this menagerie, merely a curious bystander. Only listening to wondrous tales told through roaring and croaking. I was a spider in the morning, but I am nothing now.

I take in a deep breath. My skin feels too tight. My dress feels too heavy.

Since I returned to my family there's nothing to do but wait.

So I wait.

Over the table, a pair of green eyes watch me. It locks and holds me in a choke.

I press my lips together. She always could do that.

Larentia could easily take over the conversation. But she waits too, mouth a pencil thin line. Not sure for what, I move on my chair slightly and clear my throat.

„I had hoped Evangeline would join us," I open the small talk. I fold my hands in my lap, palms pressing together. They are wet and sweaty, and I am glad no one has caught it.

If I could, I would be swelling pride and stinging beauty. I am not. I need to be humble. Mistakes have been made.

She knows. I can be happy she is even talking to me in private. One lonely breeze sways over us. I suck the air in like I have gills. She is more graceful at that before she answers.

„She is occupied."

I can believe so. I know all about it. Buzzing preparations, words flung through the air, and rising expectations.

I was too young the last time there was any royal wedding and this Queenstrial I am too old and feel withered. Not that my social status would be high enough to do anything than wait and hope to be seen, sit silent on a table between my kin. I am no contestor. I am not even a claimant of any privilege. I am what people call me. _A widow._

"And the rest of your family wouldn't want to join in, yes?" I had hoped to at least catch a glimpse of her children.

She holds her head high and shoulders arched. A clear line of elegant neck, fine jewelry and tar-black hair that leads to her closed face. She may be older than me, but she is still more beautiful. I forgot that, and it leaves some knots tied in my stomach. "People are all occupied. It is the nature of the upcoming events."

When I blink, my mind counts the days since I have seen her last.

It is not too hard.

Even if eleven months seem like a long, long time now. A lifetime. She told me if I didn't stop my fights, didn't reassemble myself fast enough, I could very well be as dead as my husband to her.

And I was.

I was dead to everyone. And I was dead to Larentia Viper.

„Thank you for welcoming me back." I bow my head, I sink down, and if I would kneel I could never be more submissive to her on my seat. My voice sounds hoarse. " And if my fight with two families has caused you any inconvenience...I sincerely apologize, Larentia."

Not that she would need to worry about House Viper too much. She is still one of us by name, but she is married to one of the most influential and powerful men there are. Her children are Samos.

If she had to choose, I am sure she would not choose my branch of the family making little waves over my disobedience.

I am not the only one thinking about family. Not the only one remembering our last meeting.

She sits straight, and the branches cast a shadow over her eyes.

"You disappointed me." Her voice cuts me like a razor blade. "You mistreated your House."

A list of bad deeds, it seems. My lungs shrink under the pressure, and I hold my hands together tightly.

"You made a _fool_ out of yourself."

The worst sin, the public display of stupidity and foolishness.

If Larentia would just get up and hit me, in my face, right here. Stain her gem coated rings on pale fingers with my blood.

It would not hurt more than the way she looks at me. I force myself to maintain that eye contact since it is the best I will receive.

"I know," I say weakly. "I know I disappointed you. I know what I did and what people say I did."

She leans back slightly. In the distance, an animal roars again, a sound that could cut through stone.

Her voice is the same. "But do you know why I invited you?"

I shake my head.

Her green eyes wander over my face, the unruly strand of dark hair escaping from my knot, the dark collar.

„You have always been my favorite cousin."

A mutual feeling. I only wait silently, hidden in the shadow of the lush trees.

„I remember the scorpion you used to carry around when you were little," she continues. The memory does not wake up anything bright. She doesn't smile. She barely blinks. „You used to put it in this tiny box with other animals and watched them fight to death."

Curious she brings that up now. Of course, I remember the grey stinger flinging through the air, and I remember how often it won.

„Don't waste your talents anymore. Be the scorpion, not the dying, frightened critter."

_Be the scorpion._

_Be a Viper._

It is the first time someone has been set for me, giving me advice obvious enough but still it means something else. It means a second chance.

She gives me another chance.

„My talent is of course for you to use as you please." I can barely believe my luck now. "If you need me the following weeks, I will be at your service, but I am occupied on some days, at least. There is a fight I need to attend in August."

She watches me without much surprise. I never could surprise Larentia Viper.

"So you have finally accepted your current situation. And I was starting to think you were selfish."

How would I ever be selfish when everything I do and don't do is dictated by blood and oaths? I honor silver agreements and traditions. It is why I have even come to visit, and it is why I left the capital in the first place. It doesn't mean I am fond. But what does fondness mean?

"I was unreasonably upset. Grief does that to a person."

I lie. She knows. I have no grief for the dead man buried and lost. I only have grief for the status, the home and the money I have lost.

„There is value in your future engagement I hope you can see."

I catch her drift. I would be a fool not to.

If I play my cards right, I can be very useful. It is still dangerous enough.

But all it does to me is making my eyes size her up and down. I am not her. I was never as strong, nor was I ever as lucky. And she knows that. It is why she lets me admire her from afar for most of our lives.

My shoulders almost slump together, and it feels like I want to burrow myself in.

Larentia isn't bothered by it. Not in the way she would worry, at least. She knows my lifelong complaints and weaknesses by now and just sits straight and beautiful, not letting me go with her eyes.

"How is Atara doing?" She asks.

I force myself not to huff out a breath of air. We both know that she is painfully clear aware of anything that happens with Atara Viper.

"Moderately," Is my answer.

"I'm sure you have a lot to say to her."

Maybe. Maybe I have some words of wisdom hidden somewhere between my shell of smiles and layers of black clothing.

"Dear cousin," I say, and the words seem to be like acidic ichor up my throat. " No one ever listens to me. I am just a merry widow."

"Not for too long anymore." There is no mock in the words. She reminds me one last time. There is only ever so much patience in her attention.

I choke at my own smile. "I will be sure to tell Atara when she chooses to accompany me. Maybe that will change her mind about listening to my advice."


	3. Malevolence

_malevolence- the quality of causing or wanting to cause harm or evil_ **  
**

* * *

_**I** _ _bring bad luck._

At least that is what people say, half mocking, half joking. Never to my face.

And that is for the best. They would regret it. This merry widow may not command a vicious army of men and monstrous predators, but I wouldn't need that anyway.

Considering I am about to watch men fight, the sentiment holds a decent amount of amusement now. I wouldn't be opposed if I could bring all the bad luck in this world. They could drop down in this arena below, in the front of all these Red figures squeezed inside the concrete ranks.

That wouldn't bore me as much as all of this does now.

We sit comfortably above in our cushioned seats. Next, to me, Atara is lost in some chattering talk to the Welle girl. They are as pretty and meaningless to me as always. I force myself to listen half-hearted, only because there is nothing else to do than that, waiting.

"And then she asked him to spent some private time alone with her, can you believe it?"

"The gall of that girl."

"I know!"

Something scratches along the high collar of my dark dress. Lucky enough it is cool enough here, with a rocking electric fan swaying back and forth above our heads. Down in the sand it must be hot, boiling sun above.

The irking scratch continues, but I choose to ignore it, not willing to give up the small grace I can display in this box filled with a soft breeze and the comfort of small shadow.

The legs of the spiders that are sitting in my black hair move as I do, two big dark shadows weaved into it, decorating me. I gently lift one arm, now that I wait, and one of the spiders climbs down on my ear, hairy body tickling me. It creeps along my throat, half hidden under my dress, follows down my dark sleeve to my finger. I wear little jewelry, but I don't need to.

The spider rests on my index finger.

They are my jewelry today.

I could play the old game, let snakes embrace me. I have seen my cousin do it more than once. For now, I am content to feel the soft body sit on my fingers like the brightest diamond.

I can see the Welle girl next to me doesn't share my content. She looks disgusted. I feel tempted to threaten her, tell her about the poison in those fangs. In truth, the spider's bite is mostly discomforting, surely not deadly.

Atara only curls one side of her mouth up by my silent display. If she is displeased, jealous, or simply amused, who knows. We are family, but that never means our blood makes us tame and friendly around each other.

Instead of threatening people, my eyes move below, raking over the figures on the concrete benches, but without seeing any of them. They are nothing for me.

Then I look back to where the important part of this spectacle will just start any second now.

Atara is talking to the Welle girl again, eyes leaving my spider, denouncing other girls her age, telling rumours, who knows. I have heard them all by now.

But at least they aren't about me.

The voice announces the first name, and I lean forward slightly.

Well well, Cantos, strongarm, and clearly the Red's are favoring it.

I catch the towering and overly muscular figure of the first man, no doubt brute force with little to no strategy otherwise.

Brute force breaks bones, as much is true, especially in an open fight.

Atara and her companion have joined watching now too.

"Did you talk to him before?" Atara asks.

My eyes blur as I blink up into a ray of sunlight falling through the opening, and focus on Samson Merandus instead when he steps out, announced.

"No."

"You should have wished him luck, you'll marry him soon enough," She says. "He looks decent, at least."

He is decent looking enough, I suppose, that whisper, in a cutthroat way, sharp face, blue eyes. A blurring polished sheen of blue armor, glistening.

But I am not impressed anymore by anything. I have seen beauty and pain enough, and I have taken and inflicted it.

"He won't need my luck." He may need my misfortune, though, because that is all I can offer, like some swarm of locusts.

There's a signal, booming through the hollow concrete, ending in anticipation. I hold the spider on my palm, like my fingers are a cage of flesh, now that the two men have started.

"He doesn't have a weapon," Atara notes. I follow her eyes, look at the blunt metal of the short sword in the big man's hand, and then I see that she is right. Samson has come barehanded.

That alone speaks for the kind of man he is. Contesting in a fight, and not even taking any kind of weapon except his mind.

It makes me huff. The spider shakes silently between my fingers, little eyes sharp. "Just watch."

"It is silly, really." The Welle girl says. The fan stutters and almost stops.

In the dead air, I feel my irking collar again.

"Just watch," I try to stop their chattering talk, repeating myself. "You might learn a thing or two."

Atara pulls her mouth into something akin to a mocking sneer a moment as if the thought of me belittling and lecturing her is unbelievable.

"I don't need advice from you," she says.

I could simply give up. She doesn't want my advice? Let her fall and crumble.

But I am a Viper, and so is she, and she has to meet expecatcions for all of us.

"Do you think you will just be handed the victory in Queenstrial as long as you use blunt force? Someone will be stronger than you. Someone will be smarter than you. Someone will be better." We all know what I intend to say with that. "You can watch and maybe learn, or leave."

The mentioning of that makes her stop. All the careful preparations, the stress, the hard training, all those years of building her up to the point she is now, this beautiful girl, have left their cautionary marks. That is how we are. We make things pretty enough on the outside so no one notices they are rotting away from the inside.

I would be able to feel sympathy if I had any in my body. The hot weather has sucked all nice words left out. Instead, there is the bitter stale taste of something yellow in my mouth, and I swallow on it hard.

"We all know how it will go. So while we are here," I touch my spider, gentle finger on one side of its sensible legs, hairs moving under my touch. " Please keep your mouth shut."

_I bring bad luck._

I rarely hope for things. Now I sincerely do hope with all my heart Samson Merandus will get crushed in between the palms of his opponent Cantos, the strongarm.

And perhaps I will be fortunate enough today. Just a little bit, just enough to see some bones crack and blood pour. I know Samson won't lose.

I am an animos, I know my share about creatures. I know how they snarl and screech, fight and bite. I know when they are hungry and begging to kill.

Samson is just like that. I should give him credit for it, but I don't want to. My mood is too foul. This display lacks grace for me. All it will do is stroke the winning man's ego for a while and hold the lower lives on their concrete ranks down where they belong. And it is summer. That was never to my liking too much, especially not here closer to the mud of the river. I want to return to the capital, or to my homestead, and I want to spent the summer in the shadow. Alas, life always has other plans for me.

It is a very onesided fight.

The force with which he gets cracked and overpowered in this fight is laughably obvious. Samson has little to no choice but to accept the physical discrepancy between them. And he does so poorly.

He takes some very bad hits, and it ends in his body crashing against the wall and being flung around multiple times to a point where silver blood is drawn.

I can see his blood well enough from up here.

The crowd is pleased enough with it. They make some cheering noise.

My spiders flutter and creep back into my hair. The girls watch me closely. I get up.

I am a dark shadow in too many layers of clothes, not fit for the heat, standing straight now at the edge of our box, staring at the monitor displaying the faces of the fighters.

And then I just stare down, right to where his pale frame lets sterling blood seep into sand. There is some trickling down his head too. He may be in some pain, but I can see his eyes, and they are promising something else.

A second I could believe he sees me as he looks up to where the boxes are, especially when he spits.

And of course, most people think this fight is clearly over. And I would suppose it is. But not the way they want it to.

_If you bring only your mind as a weapon, you better use it, isn't that so?_

His opponent will finish it otherwise, right here and there, because after the way he has just hit him, that brute force that can break bones, everyone knows it is over.

I look at his face again, all the ugly dirt and blood, but his eyes are still promising.

The spiders feel my twitch, my anticipation. The bolder one creeps down from my hair again, carressing one side of my face. If he was indeed just an animal, one of my spiders, for example, now would be the moment he would lift his legs, some sort of obvious pose of attack, an open threat, and jump.

Now or never, Samson, I think, though I would be content with never.

I am not the only one standing, and not the only one waiting.

For a moment it is quiet in the burning sun.

The girls are quiet too now, finally. Though I can assume they are sure I was just bragging and swinging the big talk around when I told them to shut up and watch.

And then Samson finally delivers for my prophesy.

He takes over his opponent with just one more breath before he can finish it and being declared winner.

It is one bleak, blue eyed glare, and that is the only obvious sign for what is happening down there before he simply stops him dead in his tracks.

People sometimes forget.

Whispers are to be treated with care.

If he wants to, he can make his opponent dance, and talk, and sing. He is in control of the other man's body to a point where there is no chance for recovery. Sweat is flowing down into the poor man's armor, just as the blood was flowing a moment before in his favour.

Matches are supposed to end in incapacitation. Not that Samson would care for that when he makes the man face his own sword.

It finds a way between his armor and into his intestines, clearly with the intention to gut him.

Violent, painful. Deadly, probably. I am not an expert on how much blood someone can loose and how much organs were just damaged.

The sword sits in deep, and Samson has won.

I expected nothing else. The other people around me are clearly not content with the way this match has panned out. The girls are looking at the blood that pours out into the sand, and then another sound rings through the arena.

I don't need to wait. I don't watch the healers strut over and reach him. This is over. At least something. Though I hate the thought of stepping outside again.

They say I bring bad luck, but clearly not for Samson, the victor in this fight. It is the demonstration of pure strength against the will of something visceral. Easily able to creep into your mind and hold it. Use it against you.

Smoothing over my skirt, I simply turn around. The spiders sit in my hair again, waiting.

The Welle Girl stares at me again, eyes creeping over my closed face and hands curled into fists a moment. I don't spare her another glance.

"Congratulating the winner?" Atara asks.

I make it down a set of stairs, flanked by security, as the crowd of Reds get shepherded away and out of sight without answering her.

In the tingling rays of summer light, the blood that has dried on his neck looks gray.

A stain of bloody sand is running along his cheek, over the cruel line of his curled mouth.

He seems mostly unharmed now.

He waits.

Doesn't say anything.

I study his blue-tinted armor.

A pale, ashen-haired figure looming over me.

He expects me to congratulate him.

"You're dirty," I say it with a certain disdain, but it is cloaked well enough. "Are you very hurt? I expect that someone took care of the worst."

His eyes clearly seize me up and down, and something cold brims inside them.

I am not opposed to this marriage because I know I could never love someone that clearly has little to no interest left to give for me. I never loved my first husband and we had a decent agreement up until the day he died.

_Love is worth nothing in this world._

"I didn't think you would actually make the effort to show up. I know you hate the heat."

He sounds as cold as he looks, nothing new, nothing unexpected.

I think about the way his body has crashed upwards and the way his face was just a grimace of sheer pain a moment. Then I smile, stretch out my hand.

There is a deep running resistance to touching him. He knows that. He lets me, and I feel the pulse rushing through his skin under my fingertips. Under the cold facade booms the thrill of a fight and kill.

My teeth grind a moment behind my closed lips. He can simply force me to congratulate him. But he wants me to bend and kneel. His fingers grip mine very hard a moment, crushing me as he has just been crushed. Then he lets go.

"Congratulations on your..." If I spit like he just did down in the arena, it could probably be not more filled with spite. But I won't spit. I keep smiling and show him my teeth. "Let's be gracious and call it a win."

"Always so gracious. I hope you didn't bet against me."

_If I could, I maybe would._

No words belonging here, in this small staircase, where people may well be hearing. By simply thinking it in his presence, I sincerely hope he just hears it.

"How foolish would that be?"

He leaves that question unanswered. We just silently glare at each other a moment.

Everything we do to each other, every time we wrestle, is itself just another match in another arena. I wonder how long we can keep the thrill of the fight up before we turn back to the bigger foe. For now, though, I am content in knowing we hate each other, and that if one of us bites, the other will repay, just between the two of us.


	4. Conformity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more spiders, more spiders. Next chapter no spiders,promise.

_conformity_ **-** _compliance with standards, rules, or laws_

* * *

 ** _T_** he small bench is half rotten wood and greenish tinted metal. Someone ought to replace it.

Down to my feet, one of my uncle's dogs has rolled together content. The one missing an ear. I see the torn tissue twitch while he dreams for himself. I let him. For now, there is little to no reason for any safety measures and caution.

They follow me whenever he lets them. Perhaps it is because despite all my bitterness I treat animals mostly well. They give me something easily, without me demanding and using too much force, and they don't ask for more than the basic needs to survive in return. Commanding them is my second nature, and the dogs know it. The spiders are accompanying me today are the same as the day in the arena. One sits on my shoulder, the other has found its way into my lap.

Behind me lies the respectable sized house we all have taken in as our nest. Just as the bench, it needs some replacements here and there, but all in all, it is a pretty building with enough space to spend the summer in, when we all flow away from the capital.

I would rather be inside, in my own rooms as long as I can, but a duty is a duty.

There is some everyday business going on in the courtyard. I see the lurking security in the distance. No reason to overstep any lines here, but we do have visitors, and they ought to bring their own forces, just in case. If I had to choose an unassuming, save place, I would most likely choose Summerton and its surrounding province. Because nothing has happened in my time here except some humiliation and buckling at the feet of people.

Now though, only a few days from Queenstrial, I can almost taste the anticipation in the air.  
I don't care too much wandering through the city itself, because I may be interested in some social activities and in partaking them, but I am not very capable to simply stroll along or sit somewhere and enjoy the oh so beautiful day.

The sun burns merciless and mocking on me.

Even with one layer of clothing less, I feel the sweat under my long sleeves and the upturned collar. My exposed skin feels burned already, my scalp tingles.

The girls are almost ethereal in their flimsy dresses and light shoes. My cousin wears her dark hair open over her shoulders. Her dress is a yellowish green.  
Heron Welle is pretty as well, fine structured face and graceful limbs.

I watch them with a certain interest.

I never had many friends, really. Most people are going to try and befriend you for the benefit, not because of genuine interest. And who needs them?

Two, three close relationships, that was all I had my life long. By now, they have all been broken to pieces. I have nothing. And I don't need friends. I need someone I can rely on to be allied with.

I have no siblings. Maybe that just seals my deal as the lonesome widow. The closest I have come to an ally will perhaps be my cousins, but I can't count on them now. Half of them are Samos, Atara hates me and Larentia may have given me a loan of her time and patience, but I am far from restored to her grace.

Atara says something, Heron lets some green life flow out of a crack in the pathway, smiling and lazy. A pretty little flower.

I want to stab it with my heels, trample it into the ground.

They truly like each other, or at least they are good at pretending to. Atara is not as opposed to her as she is to me. I am burdened with their sheer mindlessness. But I let them. They spend time together when they shouldn't. They'll be no longer friends when both of them try to meet their Houses expectations.

Somehow that makes me satisfied. A little.

After a while, they notice me, sitting silently and sullen.  
They could choose to ignore me, but perhaps they do have some respect left in their bones.  
The dog opens one eye slow when Heron Welle comes closer, but shuts it again when he smells my cousin.

Atara wrinkles her pretty nose. She doesn't sit down beside me. "Putting spiders and bugs all over yourself again, cousin?"

"What can I say," I smile at her. "They make me feel irresistible."

Her eyes are vicious and slightly mocking in the light. Really, she can be a darling. "A good thing your fiance doesn't mind to share you with animals that have more than four legs."

I leave that unanswered.

Heron jumps right after Atara, but she sounds softer. Her eyes are blue and fluttering, large.

"I thought with the kind of animals you are surrounded, you'd like the heat."

Spiders can live in warm weather, and they aren't opposed to heat. I am not. 

"Spiders are cold-blooded." I look at the creature tingling on my lap up and down. "That much is true. And maybe you think they are useless."

She probably doesn't care about it, so I spare her the details.

The reason I like spiders of any kind, as much as most other insects are easy.

They have their methods to survive somehow.

The basic needs of survival and the very primal, but also the patient way they can act. I always wanted to be like that.

" But don't underestimate things in life, not spiders, not anything else," I sigh. No one ever listens to me. They should, especially after yesterday. "Just because something is small never makes it less dangerous."

Her sleek dark hair falls in flowing, elegant strands over her face when she moves her hand upwards. The dog makes a low noise at my feet.

At first, one crow lands in the tree. Then a second. A third flutters down on her arm. A murder of crows, I believe it is called when many birds gather.  
I am unimpressed by three of them.

It takes a moment longer, and the whole tree croaks and makes noise.

"Birds eat bugs and spiders though," Atara answers too proud, hand caressing the dark sheen of feather.

"And sometimes it is the other way around," I answer, watching the black spider rubbing its legs on its underside, and I know if I wanted to, I could just let it jump in her face and her bird could do nothing. If sitting and watching Samson fight has bored me, this is even worse.

"We plan to visit the town later," Atara answers. "I don't suppose you want to join us?"

I am blinking into the sun like someone that has never seen it before and wants to forget it exists again, half blind. The dog growls. The spiders jump up, climbing on top of me again. I force my body up with the most grace I can muster.

"Let me have some words with your father, and then, maybe, after I have changed, I will reconsider the offer."  
The small council of pettiness and anger, as I choose to call my elder ones, has made themselves comfortable in air-conditioned, confined seats.  
One dark uniformed security officer gives me a long look.

"The situation is under control, I heard."

"Well, it is a good thing there have been no major damages to neither the palace nor in this...small incident in Summerton."

I listen closely. Something clearly is not right. An incident? I guess their little trip falls flat. What a shame.

Above my uncle's head hangs a banner in green and black, and the two remaining dogs let their tongues hang out when the third one joins again. Normally a good sign. It means he and my father have not yet started smashing their skulls on or hurl thinly veiled insults at each other.

"Daliah," I am greeted. "I suppose our guest and her host are fine?"

My heels click over the wood and stone.

"Enjoying one last breath before getting prepared. Father," I nod, take the empty seat to his right. "You don't look so content."

"A terrorist attack and some small incident in the city causing trouble," He simply states, rubbing above his temple with one ringed set of fingers.

"A terror attack?" I can't imagine what flurry that must cause, especially so close to our own special event.

A terror attack. Unlikely I ever thought that would be possible. Who would dare? It is madness. We are supposed to be untouchable.

"It is not like we know too much yet, so we may as well sit it out and watch for damage control if needed."

Since I am good at waiting things out, I agree.

"Keep watching Atara tomorrow. And make sure she's focused." As I wagered, just a watchdog to make sure the pride and glory of our family makes it through without damaging reputation. "And please stop wearing your widow's attire."

"I stopped wearing a veil and time for grieving is over," I answer. Easy truths. The next words are harder. They hurt my gums when I force them out. "I am agreeable to marrying Samson Merandus. So I am not sure what more you expect me to do."

"True, you have made remarkable progress back to your old self. Almost as if you didn't loose your mind and start that small feud with your deceased husband's family." My uncle sneers a little. There is the anger again.

I blink, wait, don't answer.

"You met with Larentia yesterday." My father has stopped massaging his temple.

It feels like an interrogation. I don't like that at all.

"My favorite cousin invited me. A little reunion."

"Well, it is good to know you are finally back. You are reasonably keen and calculated. Keep it that way."

I simply nod.

I get another almost ceremonial gesture from my uncle, the wave of a hand. Who knew someone could try to look regal doing it and fail. "You are dismissed."

"Of course," I only say.

"Get the girls in front of the screen, I am sure they want to watch the latest news and information too."

"Of course," I say one more time.


	5. Assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo one last Viper chapter before we get into like..ALL the canon. And a lot Samson. Hope you like it. No spiders and bugs mostly this time!

_assault - violent physical or verbal attack_

* * *

_**I**_ dream almost peaceful. Just me in the middle of a safe, dark place, with nothing but glass boxes surrounding my bed. Some of the lids are closed shut, some are half open, and the inhabitants are free to come and go when they want.

When I do wake up, I simply lie still, eyes half closed, until something warm and soft touches my outstretched fingers.

Beside me in the cold sheets, escaped from the biggest terrarium, pink eyes move in the dead night. An even pinker tongue flickers out, licking the scents of the world and sucking in information.

An old friend, a pretty reminder of my heritage. Not like the bugs.

 _A good thing your fiance doesn't mind to share you with animals that have more than four legs._ I hear Atara mock.

The thought of sharing anything again in my life leaves a bad taste.

And then there is the very much most obvious fact about my husband to be: You can never trust someone that is able to creep into your head.

I think about the easy way that whisper has managed to kill someone, taking away their control. I remember him with the same distaste as one would remember a nasty rash, his proud face and crooked eyes cutting through me.

How can I keep my head safe from him? Not that he'd be smitten with what he can find anyway. The longer I find myself in the position of having to accept this arrangement, the more I dread the day I have to go through with it.

The snake curls over my arm, white skin against sharp darkness.

There is a story about a Viper Bride and her snakes. She did let them inside the bed to her husband, on their wedding night. Left with only venom instead of blood, they say. Imagine the dread of slithering, hot bodies tightening around you and fangs breaking skin again and again until you die in agony.

I smile at the snake on my arm, give it one gentle stroke.

Now would that not be tempting. I was already a widow once, what means another time? But I do want to stay alive, and _the Poison Bride_ , as one calls her, was executed.

No, no, I will need to find another way to make sure Samson doesn't try to get any ideas to sneak inside my head. Threats often work. And he can't be inside my head all the time if he should dare and try. I will make him regret it.

The snake curls around me.

"You'll see," I promise to its silent witness. "I am never going to be robbed off what I deserve again."

The house is a field tripped with wires and traps, be it day or night.

Every room has their own quarrels and fights.

This house has visitors often. Something about inviting people can be seen as humble when it is arrogance for being able to summon them at the same time. Just one of many double-faced, easy rules. But this time, no one has even entered the house, it is only us Vipers, and something has woken at least one up to make a ruckus.

The first thing I notice is the growling, snarling, the loud noises of too many animals.

Not exactly just my uncle being angry enough to let the dogs rip into someone or themselves.

Barefoot and silent I tap through the house, following the sounds.

I find my uncle and his daughter in the dining room.

Through the open window, the sound of angry animals is everywhere. The dogs are creeping and lurking behind the table, grey shadows filled with hunger.

"We all know how it will end," Atara mutters. Glowering, the room is filled with anger, spite, and something heated. Whatever the discussion was about, in the end, it has shifted to something obvious. And whatever little rest I had, it isn't enough to soothe over the edges of mistrust and disgust that rise in me when I see their faces.

"Don't say it then if you think we all do."

"She was born to win Queenstrial. She will be queen, and you will be fine with it, simply because of whatever promises Samos has made."

"You think it is that easy?"

"And you think I am stupid. Else you wouldn't let Daliah sniff around me all the time to control me."

I am barefoot and positively annoyed. "What is this about now?"

"Ah, our merry widow, right on time." My uncle looks as angry as ever, but also quite frustrated. Ah yes, the joy of having daughters. I can attest for that by myself and my father too.

"You are concerned about your position? About any political intricacies? Your cousin knows everything about feeling inadequate and acting like a fool because of it. Ask her."

I want to hurt him.

I will take his dogs, and they will rip him apart.

It will be slow, it will be painful. He will feel how they eat him alive.

They growl again, if because it is my cousin making them uneasy or because of me, who knows?

He leaves us, and I am not sure how to react properly. Atara just presses her mouth together into a thin line.

It is silent between the two of us. I break into it, just being straightforward for once.

"How do you feel?"

She doesn't answer, but the white and gray that creeps over her make sure to let me know she is not feeling so well after all.

"Not inadequate," Her hands fidget a moment while she tries to appear calm, head held high.

I huff, cross my arms over my nightgown. "Good, neither do I."

Wild dark hair and so very, very angry and proud. Her fingers curling together admit it. Her eyes tell a story of it.Oh, she hates me, I can feel it on my skin like a million kisses.

"I know which side you are on."

_Well, that is a surprise._

"Yes?" I ask interested.

She knows nothing about my side. If she did, she could see that my side is mine all alone.

"You always loved Larentia, and you always liked Evangeline. Even after what you said to her at that banquet last year."

"If it is any consolation," I offer. "I haven't talked to her since I have returned. And Larentia clearly doesn't consider me her confidante."

"And you don't feel inadequate? I would love to know your secret."

She is angry. Angry, nervous, even tired to a point where her nerves tingle and her head snaps.  
We can't afford that. The small council of pettiness and anger was right about focus.  
And I can't deny I am angry too.

"How about I tell you if you beat me in some small exercise?" I offer.

She eyes me, then she nods.

* * *

The rules are mostly the same as I would set them for most of our matches, be they broadcasted, fought in some arena or private quarrels for exercise and training.

We draw blood, we hurt each other, but we do not kill. For the second time this night I just think can't stop thinking about Samson not batting an eye and breaking that rule.

I won't stab and gut my cousin, even if I would love to. No death. Also, I won't hurt her face. She will need it intact since it is one of her saving graces.

The courtyard is empty, sans the shadow of some Red hurrying out of our way.

She stands right next to the bench. I stand left, next to the crack Heron has let flowers grow out of.

Positioning. Waiting.

I am not barefoot anymore, and neither of us wears their nightgowns. We are two small, slim forms filled with some anticipation and energy that needs to vent.

The sky is a chorus of gold and silver, broken with strokes of pink and white clouds, like little stains. With a fluttering of wings, the flock of birds falls and rises like a tide around her. She looks terrifying and beautiful. It has a certain effect.

Birds eat bugs, she told me, a promise now.

I simply stay where I have positioned myself. A short moment of silence. Then the heaving breaths and loud tapping paws.

The dogs are good old trusty tools. They are my uncle's anger, and they follow me now again.

Atara genuinely looks as angry as she probably feels. "That is not fair, they are not yours."

I scoff softly into the morning air.

"When was it fair? Nothing is ever mine."

They don't care. I don't care. They're essentially just bred to fight. I almost laugh, looking at the way we both circle each other. No different than those dogs.

Battle-scarred back, one of the big creatures stays with me, and the other two reach for the attack.

It is a little chaotic.

The dogs leap around one big knot of tightly tied muscles and energy. The birds try to fight, they flutter and scratch, croak, and hack.

One of the dogs rears, shaking head and hurt nuzzle. Blood flows from scratches.  
The second snap his long sharp teeth around one of the bird's wings and drags it down, throwing it around with force and growling anger.

One last shudder, then the dagger-teeth break its neck. There is no real sound of death. As always, there is the last breath of life, the small last resistance as it leaves and death comes. The dog shakes the bird once, twice.  
All while they fight, me and the third dog creep up to where Atara stands.  
She doesn't seem to notice first, in the flurry of blood, death and feathers.

But then her eyes focus over on the remaining dog ready to jump her, and I suddenly loose control over him. We fight and pull at the invisible leash around him. With a snarl he jumps straight at his brother. They tangle in teeth and snarling.

And the worst is, she is fast enough to get over and kick me. She just kicks me straight in the gut. Maybe she has wanted to do that for a while. Air is squeezed out of my lungs.

I try to get my composure back and reach for other animals, anything around me. She rounds me up. I duck away when she tries to hit me again.  
Three more hits and I am terribly aware she is on a physical peak that I am simply not meeting. She has had all the training and grooming in the world.

I get a few nice little escapes, taunts, but in the end, I can't beat her.

Her arms are hard muscle, everything is tense in her body when she throws me down and pins me to the cold ground.

"Yield," she hisses. Orange light tints her face, paints fine lines over her features. Her legs press hard on me, and she has all the control.

Yielding would be easy. I should simply give up. After all, this fight is meant to make her feel better. It is about her regaining some posture, not me proving the world that if I was not a merry widow and only slightly younger, I could have been in her place, and I would have made something out of it.

I should yield.

The birds are scattering. There is a good amount that haven't made it.  
One of the dogs limps, whimpers next to me.

I should roll over and play dead for her sake. Instead, I feel my fingers twitching. One, two, three small dark shadows, one bite, one sting, and it would be over.

I sense them heeding my command, creeping up the lids of their homes.

She would be in discomfort, in pain, she would maybe have proven her upper hand, but I have won, and what would the victory taste like?

She gets a little impatient and it hurts in the way she holds me down.

Victory would taste like nothing.

I need her.

Without her, I am useless to my family right now.

She is my duty. And so I just breathe hard once, twice, before the words leave my throat.

"I yield."

It hurts me to say them. But I do.


	6. Swarm

_swarm - a large number of animate or inanimate things massed together and usually in motion_

* * *

_**I**_ can feel Atara's kick, even as I walk off. With every breath and every small move of my stomach, it tingles. My mind wavers over my obvious surrender. It may be the right thing to do, but it doesn't make my mood better to acknowledge that.

All I can hope for now is that the small council of angry Vipers sees the value in my efforts.

The sun is setting slowly. In the early rise, shadows are dancing through the hallways. It is very silent.

I pass the rooms of my family one by one and wonder if they're awake, and what they are doing right now. I could imagine my uncle is awake already, perhaps he has noticed I took his dogs. And he has let me.

My father probably sits on a broad chair and reads letters in the small cone of a flickering lamp, greying and tired, but calm.

Or perhaps they are together, discussing the recent events.

The attack on our own capital by a seemingly Red blooded faction is laughable to imagine, but it has happened. I have seen the images of the buildings, and I have listened to the news reporting in as well as the statement made by King Tiberias.

I have some small rest of faith everyone will try to suppress it and suffocate whatever resistance they have. At least after the speeches and assurances made by our king and the upcoming Queenstrial, we have to display some sort of unity.

Beyond that, we will have to wait and see. Damage control, my kin named it. I suppose that is a way to call it.

When I return to my room, that one lonely bed in the middle of all the glass and small boxes fit for my animals, I find one red servant in the middle of it.

Unsurprisingly. Sometimes someone is needed to clean up, feed them, or simply take care of their wellbeing. I usually don't waste any time to even look at the servants.

They are exchangeable features in my life. I know there is one girl always serving the food, and she gets threatened by the dogs and my family often, simply because of her existence.

All the servants are quiet and at least somehow relatively pleasant to look at.

The boy is scrawny, with brown hair and narrow hands. I notice them because they don't shake or waver as soon as he has taken the cover off the glass. The spiders aren't bothering him the slightest. He cups one of them in his hand and lifts it gently, moves around.

I don't know if I am intrigued, confused or angry that he dares to touch them. If it was not for my clear connection due to my blood, I would perhaps not handle them as open and often as I do.

This boy knows he can get stung, bitten and hurt at any time. He should be as scared as the Red girl is with the dogs. They should all stay in awe and fear. After all, we are the untouchable row of elite, and they are nothing except servants answering demands.

I could make it bite him. He hasn't yet noticed me. I can make every being in this room hurt him.

After I have yielded to Atara, I am in the mood for that.

Instead, I watch him slowly and gently put the spider down and move on to the next. Not the spiders that I carried to the arena. These are smaller. He doesn't try to lift them. He just cleans up this time.

Smart. These ones are more dangerous. Depending on the treatment you are able to receive, they can cause discomfort to fever and even the small chance of death.

I am done watching him, though, and simply walk into my domain, flying hair and hurting stomach. I have no time to waste especially not on something low as him.

He gets pale, all of his red blood leaving his face when he sees me. Then he lowers his eyes. Good.

The biggest terrarium, the one with the white snake, is empty. I find it curled together on my bedpost. When I simply stretch out my arm and make it come to me, pink tongue flickering, the boy is still frozen in place, watching under the lowered gaze.

I should not have to speak to him. He should know his place. Just as Atara has kicked me, I want to kick him. I want to hurt him until he knows his place, until he knows he does not have the right for  _anything._

„Are you done, boy?" I am irritated, and I won't tolerate him any longer in my sanctuary. „Move or I will make you."

The snake hisses before wrapping around me, warm body and soft skin.

„Yes, Lady Viper." He mutters, eyes on the ground again.

The boy finally moves on and away. I am left with bruises and silence, trying to prepare my mind for what is beforehand.

* * *

Ambition itself is a motivation multifaceted as the eye of a fly.

Some people have too much. Other people not enough. You need to find the right amount of enthusiasm and vigor to punish mistakes, and you need to be smart enough to not repeat them.

I don't like mistakes.

It doesn't mean I don't make them.

Gathering in the warm air like a tide of brightly dressed forms, sliw but steady, most of my family is at the ready after the short trip from the place we reside in.

The palace is busy, and in the morning lights all our different colors buzz and brim like hummingbirds.

When I was sure there was anticipation in the air now it stands and hangs around like some miasma.

Atara is already off and away, somewhere in a burrowed hallway I can't follow to watch. She hasn't said a word to me before her departure.

"What did I tell you about the widow's attire?" My father whispers when he sees me.

Some other pairs of eyes have told me enough about their dislike of my choice of clothing already. I don't need another word about it.

"She wears black and green," My uncle answers, mouth curling. "It is something. Despite the bugs. So long as you don't attempt to attack someone tonight, Daliah. "

Another jab, another old story. I only bow my head docile enough.

"I will spend the night under your watchful eye so you can make sure I don't."

I follow them, and so do all of the other members of my house, easily visible in green and black.

This whole march on our polished boots and heels clicking over the stones and pathways symbolizes only one thing.

We are one breathing being now. We need to be. Even with all the hatred harbored, with all the dislike and the mutual feeling of slight, we are blood.

We are one house, and we are  _strong._

At first my eyes just wander around. I am still a little irritated and feel sore. Being forced into a tiny space with my kin doesn't make it better.

Just as the seating in the arena we are comfortable enough. In theory we all can look forward to the same comfort, the same food and the same seats cushioned.  
In practice one detail is more important than that. You can easily get a good impression on importance and standing by looking at which bright colors of which houses have taken the boxes closest to the Crown.

My eyes linger over some of them. In one I can see the lot of Iral gathered, quietly.  
In one other Samos.

I don't see Larentia. I see her husband and son though.

They're waiting the same as everyone else for it to start. Maybe even more.

We select by strength and beauty. Displaying daughters to make them queens later is no different.

Since I haven't seen them or Evangeline Samos since I returned, I do wonder.

But my attention gets divided again too fast by another box.  
Their colors are familiar to another extent because my husband used to wear them.  
And some of those eyes are watching me the same as I watch them.

One of the ladies in particular glares.

I can't stop myself from what I do next. Even if I should.

Mistakes. I hate them.

A dark spinning collection of mosquitoes gather together around her. I see her furrowing brow, then she swats once, one stone handed swirl. It doesn't help too much. One even lands on her fingers.

They scatter after the next whirl. But one definitely tried to creep under her collar.

I take a glass of wine from the table between my fingers, swirl it around. Take an unenthusiastic sip.

Really, something needs to be done about the pest of insects in this part of the gardens.

It does not leave the satisfaction I hoped for. My thoughts turn even more foul when I continue my inspection and I look at the relatively small number in House Merandus seating.

He stands out to me like a sore thumb.

Out of that armor, at least, but still in blue mostly. He looks distracted, and not too happy.

It isn't the same visceral coldness I usually notice, but that only adds to my caution.

"Look at Greco inhaling the cake like he is one of your uncle's dogs," My father mutters it between his teeth to my right.

"Father," I shake my head slightly, and the thick collar of fine silver chains around my throat dangles. Bright bodies coated in green stones shake back and forth attached to them like little poisonous teardrops. "Don't insult the dogs. They deserve better."

He looks at me with some hint of amusement, eyebrows slightly raised. I can remember a time when that was his usual facial expression regarding my endevours. A time when I carried around a box with a scorpion and was sure I'd have a brilliant future.

"But it is true," I don't look at the yellow colored man in their own box, my eyes just stay at Samson for the time being."He gains weight the same way he looses hair."

My father unleashes a short amused sound.

The moment I lean on my hand, Samson notices I am watching him. His sharp edged face stays disgruntled dark, and something else accompanies it as we look at each other. Now I let out an amused huff. There's the cold I missed so dearly. I hide behind my glass again, small bitter sips of bordeaux over my lips, still leaning toward the front.

At least with Samson you can be sure he is not just disgusted by the beetles at my throat or spiders in my hair, but simply by me as a living breathing being.

He has that in common with the lady tormented by mosquitoes.

For a moment I consider simply unleashing the swarm again to make his morning very unpleasant, but I don't want to strain my luck . My father is very attentive today. He follows my eyes, watches us degrade each other with one look, pushes on hand over his dark hair.

"I want you to think of yourself as a fly on a wall."

"A fly? I was sure tell me something about being a snake as soon as I get married." I don't say the most obvious about the calculation involving someone being able to read your thoughts of all time, instead I move my eyes away and just stare at my fingers half hidden under layers of lace .

„If I told you that, you'd take it as my agreement to strike somehow. But I need your eyes and not your hands for now."

He needs me? Good. That is something at least. But I still don't like the way he studies me. He and my uncle both.

"I won't repeat mistakes from the past." My voice is sharper than anticipated. "You all can stop waiting for me to snap and loose my composure again."

"You almost killed her. In public."

I don't bat an eye at that accusation. Old stings and holes in my pride, memory about a hazy, bad feeling. That is all this means now. "She deserved it. Do you know what she called me?"

"You were lucky this all could be settled and laid to rest." He leans back in his chair. "And now let's wait and hope things go the way they should."


	7. Pivot

_pivot_

_\- a shaft or pin on which something turns_

_-a person, thing, or factor having a major or central role, function, or effect_

* * *

_**T**_ he buzzing hummingbirds in the boxes have turned foul over the wait.

I am not surprised the people that are the rulers of our country let people wait, and I suppose that is their right as royalty.

I know I would make people wait all the time just to prove a point. Simple lessons of superiority, I hope, and nothing again about destruction and senseless threats made by some small fraction of fanatic reds trying to win something they can't ever anyway. When they do finally arrive, I wish I could simply forward the process.

The beetles scuttle over my front when I move.

I wear enough fabric and their chains are short enough to never accidentally touch my skin. The coat of gems hides the nature of the beetles, which is a shame because their chitin bodies are brilliantly colored and beautiful on their own. Only their orange legs remain the same.

These little creatures don't bite. Instead, they're like some acidic surprise on their own. A small unpleasant spray. They are like me, and like Atara, attacking when threatened, spraying a chemical reaction of acid that makes your day unpleasant.

Sometimes you have to appreciate your own small inside jokes.

Everyone knows the face of the King, even if he didn't wear a crown, he has been on the statements about the terror attacks, and I can see the similarity to Samson in Elara Merandus. There is that visceral brimming something. _You can never trust a whisper_ ,right _?_

At least he seems a bit more content to see her acknowledge his existence. Ah, almost heartwarming. Like the dogs, wagging their tail as soon as they get one little look. Poor starving man, surely always hopes his connection to a Queen buys him something.

I drown myself in wine to not say or think anything anymore.

With that, I also leave my father and my uncle in their pride swelling talk about something they have done, or something the King has, and something someone else has done twenty years ago, because if I answer to any of that lost glory, I will never hear the end of it.

I look at the two younger faces in the box instead, two dark-haired good looking princes.

Young, I think, both of them, still, despite the charge and onus.

I am also biased because I can't be swayed by pretty faces anymore. A small advantage when you are on the lower ends of the grace received. I am jealous of pretty things or simply unimpressed.

Well, I am sure they're just as painfully aware of how this evening will go. As it should, my father said. I suppose holding all our traditions and ways are not too bad in something as turning and unstable as the current whirlwind of situations.

There is a row of girls, a row of names, a row of steps setting forward in the technical intricacy of our very own little arena in the spiral garden tonight.

They rise and sink on platforms like some actors in a play.

We sort by power and strength, it is the motto of our semblance, and it is true.

I can see that in the way even I sort them, and most of them are low on the list.

It is just this boxes filled with the most powerful or most meaningless names, and we all pretend we haven't decided who is weak and who is strong. As if something could surprise us.

We make things pretty enough on the outside so no one notices they are rotting away from the inside.

All of these girls can attest to that.

I try to fake excitement. It ends in my just sipping on my glass, feeling the slightest bit intoxicated, and that at least makes it a bit easier to follow.

The miasma in the air is so thick you could cut it with one of the knives from the table.

Someone watches me.

At first, I believe it is the lady that I want to suffocate with a handful of insects. Shoving the gem coated beetles down her throat, seeing her face turn colorless and then grey. Finally bring to an end what we have started over a letter and a medal, a corpse and a dead brother, a dead husband.

It is not, however, and I am unpleasantly surprised to find a set of blue eyes on me. They only linger shortly and brush over me from her seat in the box that belongs to our Crown, our rulers.

I should feel honored. I try to be courteous about the attention of our Queen.

My heart still seems to strangely shrink a bit in my chest, because I think about my father wanting me to be his fly, Larentia wanting me to be a scorpion, and Atara simply wanting me gone. I am not afraid, nor am I touched, I feel cold.

I should be happy to gain expectations. I should be happy to see it come to fruition, and to wait for it to pan out.

And then, finally, after an eternity of watching the senseless, toothless flexing of the other houses, there is my duty.

My Viper cousin wears our colors, pieces of armor and fabric wound around each other, a mosaic of ornated metal and green silk. Vicious, but pretty. And meaningless, I think, seeing her in comparison to all the other girls.

Not one of them leaves a lasting impression.

"Atara of House Viper," my uncle is as vicious as one can be without the dogs absorbing his anger. I stand up behind him, hoping to catch her eyes, but I am not sure she notices a single face at all.

A hiss and whisper of voices are just like our blood, and once again, we are one being instead of a slithering mass of hatred. I am part of them when I open my mouth and speak. "Animos."

She takes a step forward.

We clap almost reserved for our dark-haired champion, and some other people among the rows join in half-hearted.

 _Come on, Atara,_ I think without much vigor. _Show me something of that savage viciousness, that malice, impress me. Kick everyone in the stomach._

I already know this won't happen, and even if it did it will not change anything.

The lady of the feathery terror lifts her arms, and I feel the suction of her gesture, can feel the compulsion when birds arrive. She is always beautiful with birds.

This time though, they don't find a way around her.

They are no ravens, crows, or predatory birds either. They are doves, delicate little creatures with soft eyes and grace.

They smash themselves against some invisible barrier created with the same intricacy as the moving platforms.

We all watch the gory explosion and blood.

It feels like some promise made by her in spite.

I smash my palms together, clap as loud as I can. Merry widow that I am, I understand spite better than anyone else.

It echoes through the unenthusiastic applause. Behind her vicious pride, I see Atara is crumbling.

House Samos has the honor of the last. A clever decision. You don't just pull out your biggest trump card at the start of something, do you?

She will have the honor of the complete and total victory.

They clapped for Atara, but they almost explode in their enthusiastic applause for Evangeline now. Understandable. If I had to choose, I would choose one cousin over the over, and not only because Atara never listens to me and hates my guts.

I do not get up this time, clap silently for myself, eyes lingering over the screen to study her upcoming performance. My face might betray me, so I hide my mouth behind my hand, slightly moving bored and lazy as people could expect.

I look at the way her spine is arched, her head is held high.

Her mother told me to be a scorpion instead of a frightened critter. I can see I am not the only one that lesson has been deployed to in one way or another.

"It'll be over soon," A female voice mutters behind my uncle. I don't look at her.

"Well, Atara was never wrong to shout at you," I look up from my hand, feeling my mouth curl into something like a smile, not quite right, but sitting good enough in my face. One side curled up.

I am gifting the smile to the jealousy that flows through my veins in shuddering waves, and the clear and abundant fact to know that people never think I am good enough. It makes me tickling angry, and I want to let the anger out now.

But I won't.

That would not be appropriate at all.

And it would harm my position now more than it would do good.

"She was born to win Queenstrial. And Volo and Larentia will be happy to give it all the little pushes it needs."

My uncle swats the accusation off. One long swing, hitting the air with his fingers.

Something about this simple truth rings in me: It is not Evangeline's fault we are where we are, and in fact, I can attest for the other girl's excellent behavior and appearance. Evangeline knows what to do, which is more than I can say for myself, now that I will be shipped off with second-grade cousin Samson.

I can feel my eyes wander over again. I hate, hate, HATE everything about him.

I hate his sleeked back blond hair, the narrow line of his mouth, and I hate his eyes the most.

I just find him irritating, and I find myself irritated to watch him.

More to drink. Maybe pester someone with insects again. Anything to not think about this.

Not to think I would rather be in that box further up now.

The applause has stopped by now. Evangeline was just waiting for that.

She'll just fling her pretty silver-haired head around and be deadly force, manipulating some metal spikes or anything.

And then it will be over and we can all go home.

But of course, it isn't that simple.

She is smiling in her black attire. And we're not that different in this second cause I am smiling too.

I laugh when I see the yellow banners of Greco shaking, a high pitched, almost hysteric sound, unpracticed, because I don't laugh often. My father glares at me.

I don't care.

I can't stop laughing, even more, when the whole damn garden starts to shake because being a scorpion is simply not enough for Evangeline Samos, she won't wait to sting poisonous, she will just take the whole world down if need be to remind people they need to be impressed.

She moves the metal under us. That is what I call ambitious and a display of strength. I told Atara that. I told her there will always be people more beautiful, better, stronger. I told her.

While Evangeline is highly focused on rising pipes and entire structures to show she deserves what she was made for, something flings down at the barrier that just made doves combust. I narrow my eyes a bit as I watch the body. Red? Servant? Female? Well, unfortunate to draw some kind of red blood in this part of the ceremony, I suppose, but sometimes accidents happen.

I choke on my laughter when the next turn of events proves to not be foreseeable, shake on my place in the box.

The girl shouldn't be alive at all. I can see the clear confusion in all the faces around as they watch that smoldering but unharmed bundle, and it only turns more strange and more chaotic, more unforeseeable by the moment, because not only is she not harmed.

I blink, watch my cousins form down in the pit, the way she moves up and the sure way she can fling needles and spikes to kill and hurt and attack.

Then there is a trickling of energy. Like lightning.

And it comes from the red girl.

* * *

A cacophony of anger and impatience welcomes me in front of my uncle's room. It reminds me of a war discussion if my small knowledge of hearing about through my dead husband's tales can be trusted. A plan of attack and defense, a strategy formed overheated words and pointed fingers.

I linger a moment when I hear one voice booming.

"Do they simply expect us to forget the whole ordeal?"

"This is worse than the deal you made with Volo Samos."

"No one, " my father interjects frustrated and disappointed. „Will try to explain economy to a boy having troubles betting and gambling. Leave inner politics to your elder ones, because we know what we're doing."

"A cheat," A female hiss. „Stays a cheat. This is impossible and a disgrace."

"I can assure you, they will not be able to make anyone forget," my uncle is howling as his dogs do sometimes. „Whatever happens next, we will have what's ours bound by tradition and by promises made."

I don't knock. That would be a waste of time. There is no reason to try and be courteous.

With one big push, I open the door, swinging metal hinges, moaning under the force, sent flying.

I simply take my place in this council of anger and poison, because I deserve it.

They stare at me as if they never thought I would try to enter the room. As if I would ignite and burn on the doorstep.

My chains dangle again when I nod to the row of angry faces. Some are standing, some are sitting. One chair is left empty.

I don't wait for them to acknowledge my existence. Instead, I simply walk over to the place I should have always had. Right next to my father and uncle. The dog with the missing ear welcomes me, one soft, wet nose moving.

"Good evening. Uncle, aunts, cousins. Dear father. Apologies for being late."

"What is the merry widow doing here?" One of them asks. Oh, so rude, and that after we just displayed the most precious unity."Didn't you tell her the great news already?"

Great news? I bristle cautiously but keep my mouth shut.

When they're normally almost lazy, they move erratically now. Arms crossing and fists clenching, jaws tightening and teeth gritting.

It makes them more dangerous than ever. The dog touches my legs. I let them all move around me like a wall of fur and teeth, separating my body from the others.

"Careful Loren, she is still your cousin, and an older one at that." At least my father has been expecting me. My father speaking on my behalf? This evening continues to be full of twists, turns, and wonders.

The only other female Viper in the room gives me a long look, dark eyes narrow. "Daliah should have the seat."

I feel the distaste crawling through my blood when I smile. "Thank you, Calpurnia."

I gain one nod from her, grey like cobwebs in her dark hair tightly pulled back.

I count my voices on the council. For now, I am approved. Good. This should have happened earlier. It is only one step up the ladder.

First, the family, seizing some control and acceptance, being the right mix of demanding and humble.

Then the rest. Slow, slow. I am so good at waiting right now, if it was awarded I would be famously known. But it is the only thing to do. Half of our politics seems to be to wait things out. Wait until we've beaten our enemies in war tired and they may run out of resources or bodies to toss in, wait for your worst foe at court to lose favor. Wait for the damage control after an impossible event.

„Queenstrial will be appeased and Evangeline Samos will marry Prince Tiberias. That is a fact." My father explains. „We are no Eyes and even the Eagries couldn't have foreseen this sudden turn in events."

„Why are you fighting then?" I ask as innocent and docile as possible, willing to push back the grinding teeth and mean eyes of all of us.

Loren grits his teeth again. He is pretty, I'll give him that. Looks a lot like his sister snarling at me and unleashing birds. I could tear my nails into his pretty pale face before he could move, and nothing could be done about it.

Calpurnia is more subtle. She simply keeps her arms crossed, glittering eyes cautious. I never trusted her. Old snakes may seem tame, but they never truly are. They just accustom to their owner and getting held, they never like it. She hated my mother, I haven't forgotten that. And neither has she.

"A good question." My father can barely hide his amusement and annoyance.

"Wait and see for what they plan to do with her existence. If we all get what we were promised, we can't do too much anyway." I offer. „There will be an official statement, won't there? You can banter and think about the impossible. No Red Blood has power. It is the reason we are superior. There will be some other explanation."

„Something smart leaving your mouth?" My gambling cousin, Ataras pretty brother, gambles too high now.

„One of us has to be smart at least." I hold my head high.

He throws over an amused glare, puffs a breath out his straight held body.

„We need to stay together," my father mutters.

„Sometimes maggots think they are snakes."

The dogs snap to life, growling, and they don't need much. One leap and they will drive their teeth into him. I'll make him lose a finger or take care he'll need some medical attention to ever father children.

„You will not speak to me this way!"

"Loren, behave," Calpurnia swings in, keeping the dogs at bay with her own power of compulsion.

„Enough!" My uncle is louder than all of us. „I expect nothing else from Daliah since her last adventure of catastrophic missteps but you are my son and supposed to know better."

"Well, it won't matter how smart Daliah is," Loren answers, almost like he is some child and can't stand for me to have the right, or for someone else to have a last word. "She'll be married to Merandus within next week, so I guess we can let her stay now."

I feel my heart shrinking in my chest again.


	8. Rumination

 

> _rumination_

_-the act or process of regurgitating and chewing again previously swallowed food_

_**-** _ _obsessive thinking about an idea, situation, or choice especially when it interferes with normal mental functioning_

* * *

 ** _W_** ithin next week. I am robbed off again. Robbed off and even getting deprived of any decency to have this halfway to my liking.

Within next week, degraded and shipped off and fending with someone that hates me as mutually as I do hate him. But the whisper has the advantage of simply crawling into my thoughts if he wishes to do so. If he should dare. I still haven't given up on hope to be intimidating enough to throttle and prevent those attempts.

My gut gurgles, morbidly content eating itself and inflicting me pain.

I want to vomit, but nothing would leave my stomach except some sour bile made of wine and the decadent remains of a too sugary cake.

I try to focus on their voices, sitting in the chair still, not yet gone anywhere. Loren's voice does not leave me alone, as much as all the other dark and green eyes of the council.

They notice. I do not wish to talk about it now. Now I understand why my father was so attentive, and maybe I can even understand why Samson was in a seemingly bad mood. He is surely not smitten with me as his wife at all.

When the discussion has ended the green and black figures of the Vipers go their own way. They fade into dusk, clicking heels on the tiles and the stone floors. Loren will most likely sneak away to complain about the situation or snicker for his small victory. He is a petty little boy to me. I wouldn't waste time if he hadn't brutally brought _great news_ to me.

The worst is that my uncle and Calpurnia try to groom him into inheritance and responsibility.

"Stay a moment, Daliah," My father decides.

"What is there to say?" I ask him. "I am very sure to attend later again. Better take care of Atara."

He takes a long breath, face unreadable, with one long knit between his brows. Sometimes I think he is still fond of me. Maybe because I remind him of my mother.

My legs carry me away from my room or any other.

The air is warm.

I still shiver under my clothes. My jewelry seems to strangulate me. My body quivers, muscle, and nerves fluttering.

_What did I expect? To stay in a safe distance and betrothed forever? To stall time?_

_To stay the merry widow that I hate being, simply for the fact people laugh about me?_

I shouldn't be so shocked. It is predictable this has happened. My family speaks about damage control all the time. This is nothing else. My father wants me closer as some kind of spy and distraction. I am a simple investment that had already been made. I am a young widow with a bad reputation from the weak branch of the House.

When I slowly loosen the collar, I don't feel my fingers. They are as numb as the rest of me.

Then, one by one, I simply clip the beetles off. Let them scurry through the courtyard.

They'll either be found and die because someone pries off the gems, or they will reflect light brightly and make an easy target to get eaten.

The way of life. Get robbed or get eaten.

I do not cry. I never cry. I am not sure I remember how it works.

A moth flutters through the summer air. I blink into the sunshine, stare at the small body.

Strange. This kind of moth should not be awake right now.

I am just one small, hunched figure in a stiff dress, half covered in dark lace. Widow's attire. Not any longer. I try to act reasonable and see the advantages. Right now it is hard.

The moth still flies. It comes towards me.

It rests gently on my shoulder, antennas twitching. A second follows,  a third , until I am swarmed. I am their cone of light now, I am what keeps them here.

It feels like consolation. Someone cares enough to make moths sit with me.

After this round of insults and anger, I wonder. But I take it simply, and I don't question it.

* * *

 

I keep the moths for the whole day. I keep the moths waiting for news, and I keep them when I clash with my cousin again.  
They rest in my hair or on my shoulders and only leave me once when I change.  
I've never looked plainer than to the feast. The daring beetles have been sent running. One last day of black, one last day of letting me mourn things I can't ever have. One last day of stiff collars with the moths in my hair and on my body.

 _Let me have this one,_ I think. _And let me have some words too._

To say the ballroom is big is perhaps the biggest understatement I have ever heard.

We sit in our own corners, on our own small territories, and we guard all our space jealous. But there will be a moment when we spread, just for a short duration. I am waiting for that moment.

It is short. It happens once before it all will start, and it will happen after it has ended. Like some ebb and flow.

The first target I cross off my list is my Viper cousin, sitting silently in a row with the other girls.

"You did well," I tell her.

"I saw your standing ovation." She just remarks, dressed in green and black, the lady of feathers.

I huff out a breath and move on.

There is no comfort to offer, especially not in front of all the eyes watching. I move on to the next.

I find them on their table. Reverence is to be paid, the big eat the small, it is the way of things. At least I am not the only bootlicker, trying to humble their way through a quick compliment and conversation with Volo Samos.

I follow etiquette well enough.

Larentia watches me closely handling her husband and son. It's funny. Sometimes I remember him as a boy, but he clearly towers over me. At least he has more manners than Loren.

But I am not a girl with a scorpion in a box anymore. And Ptolemus is not a little boy anymore.

I can't run to his mother and beg her to protect me, to teach me something.

_I am on my own, now and forever._

"I think I have missed seeing you at the Queenstrial," I say.

"It was a busy morning," Is her only answer. She doesn't get up. I stand before her as a bidder.

My eyes lose her green ones when I lower my glare.

"I hope everything tonight will be at least to your content."

We both know I mean Evangeline. Not a Viper by name, but half by blood.  
She is her mother's daughter, after all.

One moth gently flutters over from my hair, lands on her finger. It crawls over her rings, green and silver, black, elegant and fitting.

"Congratulations on getting married again, Daliah. Better take your seat now."

I stare at the way the moth flies back to me.  
Somehow I am sure I know now who sent them, even if it seems impossible.

The whole evening goes by slow.

It starts as it always does and always will when our rulers enter.

A speech to garner strength and a sad story about dead people.

From my own little cornered seat I just watch over all of it as if I hadn't been part of this summits and banquets, feasts and dances before. I suppose it could hold a certain wonder. But it bores me. Everything bores me- that is not as it should be, but what else can I admit to myself but this little truth?

I have little patience for sad stories, that makes it harder too, else I would walk around telling my own. I have a few of those, and even more, if you simply omit some parts that make me look bad.

Of all the sad stories, I hate nothing more than sad stories about people lost in wartimes. Tragedies.  
The physical urge to shake myself is high.  
Yes, a silver house lost is a terrible tragedy.  
We all loose something when we toss bodies down there.

So, the girl falling in the pit is a silver daughter supposedly believed dead, returning in this time, and taking a spot right at this feast. And the younger prince. From being believed dead and living as a servant right to the highest rank. Not too bad.

Welcome in the rotting world , Mareena Titanos. Welcome back and I'll watch you stumble later if necessary.  My head flutters over my own problems right now.

At least it does come as my father has said, and the Queenstrial is appeased by the older prince pledging himself to Evangeline. And it does come as Atara yelled about.

She takes it with grace. They all more or less do.

I don't talk to my father at all.

I simply nod and act as I am expected too.

I keep my eyes and ears open as much as possible. No one really ever listens to what a merry widow has to say. But they forget she can listen too.

And then there is still the third and most unpleasant target. That has to wait until the feast has passed on with toast and more boasts and more speeches. At the Queenstrial I could simply escape him because I stayed with my house. At the feast, it is slightly different.

I look over to where Samos sits, back up to where Atara is seated.

No. I can't back out now. And I won't.

 _Within next week,_ I remember. _No escape anyway. Best to clarify some things._

He never expects me to find him. Perhaps that is good. Surprise can be an advantage.  
Their eyes are a sea of pale blue. As soon as I step over, the whole lot of Merandus swallow me whole.  
"Lady Viper," One of them says.  
I bow and curtsy and crawl like always since I moved with my family to Summerton.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything." Acting humble suits me by now. I hold the smile on my face as long as I can. I let it live from all the small missteps people have made tonight. And then I remember how Samson smashed against the wall and my stomach is filled with something warm and cackling a second. It may just turn out to be my favorite memory to draw from. "Can I steal my future husband for a moment?"

His eyes flicker a moment, but he keeps his composure. I am sure he can guess my intentions. _If he doesn't just read them_. "How about a walk?"

"Oh," I want to vomit again and show unnecessary teeth while smiling. "I'd love that."

He offers his arm. I slide my hand over the soft fabric of his sleeve, link my fingers together along with it. I can feel the tenseness of his muscles, running all through his arm and up to his shoulder.

The fresh air outside the ballroom tickles me. It sends the moths shivering, wings moving up and down on my head.

My spine tingles because his pale eyes are like marbles, and they study me very closely.

"You surprise me again."

"Because we usually flee when we see each other?" My hand is just holding on even if I want to cut off all my fingers where I touch him. "Giving each other disgruntled looks?"

"I don't flee." He holds his head very high, and in the small cones of light that tint the hallway bright in light his pale skin and hair is some cold, bright glimmer. "Fleeing would mean surrendering in fear, and I never fear you, and I don't surrender."

"Maybe you should," I simply say. It is supposed to scrape over his massive ego because we both know a man that takes no weapon into an arena fight is never going to surrender himself. Not to me, at least.

He only confirms it.

"No, that will never happen." One side of his mouth curls upwards slightly. He's happy with himself being so superior. I hold my tongue to not spill insults over him.

"Did you enjoy tonight?"

He sees through the small talk. We round a corner, pass a camera blinking down.

He waits for two more breaths and five more steps until he asks me something very low.

"What do you want?"

"The marriage comes sudden," I explain.

"Does it? Aren't you happy to not be _a merry widow_ anymore?"

I don't like the way he says that. His enunciation makes "merry widow" sound like the worst insult, and his eyes are harsh.

Everything about his face is blistering and harsh to me, too narrow and too violently sharp.

Samson, my nasty rash, because that is really the only appropriate likeness he has to my mental state.

I let go of his arm, stand still in a whirl of glass and stone that is this palace.

"I remembered something watching the princes pledge themselves to these girls tonight."

He still watches me, and I could believe he cares what I have to say. He weighs my words on his tongue, at least, deciding if they have any value at all.

"I won't get into the gossip about our lost daughter returning in this strange events."

"Why, thank you." He sounds bored with me now, and his eyes have wandered.

_What do you know I don't, whisper?_

I am more amused than angry right now, somehow. This whole situation is something above my control. A hasty marriage seems like nothing to it. I want to laugh in his face, laugh at the world, and then stab it, rip it apart until there is nothing left.

"I thought...The day you pledged yourself to me, it was strange. I had heard the words before from someone else." I huff out a breath. "You almost broke my thumb holding my hand too tight when I wouldn't say a word."

He remembers the day. I remember the day.

I only had to say two words when he made that little vow, that thing we do, when we pledge, with our names and our House. All I had to do was to say I accept.

I wanted to bite off my tongue. Nothing has changed in my unwillingness, and nothing has changed in the way we look at each other.

We are the degraded cousins.  
In that sense, it is the perfect match.

"You love to exaggerate. I'd never break your thumb." He says that matter of fact.

"No? Would you rather try and break something else?"

Now it is my turn to smile again. I shouldn't do that.

I see something changing in his face, below the surface. Something freezes, and something snaps. One simple curl of a mouth and a twitching hand. "Are you challenging me?"

"You would know if I was," I whisper. "Because I can't trust you not to know everything I think, can I?"

"Now I understand what this is about. At first, I was sure this was important. But it is simply you being petty as usual." I feel his breath when he leans over me and I force myself from not just either closing my eyes or biting him until I draw blood. Instead, I stare up to him. His pale fingers nonchalantly pluck out one of the moths from my hair. He stares at it in a way that makes me believe he would enjoy ripping the wings out as it struggles in his grip. Maybe he will squash it. His voice is merely a promise carried away by nighttime. "You'll notice when I start digging through your decayed head. I'll make sure."

With a fling of his fingers, he lets go of the moth.

I flinch.

And I hate myself for it.

"If that is all, Lady Viper," He offers me his arm again as if he has not just promised me pain and nightmares. "Let me escort you back to your family."

Decayed head, he says, as if he already has made an inspection.

I feel my skin crawling with overwhelming paranoia now.

"Of course."

And I take his arm.


	9. Association

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will all go through revision soon oof but I need to push it or it won't be finished.

_association_

_feeling or thought that relates to someone or something_

* * *

_**T**_ he dogs are not livid under my control. They move precise and waiting.

Their eyes are wide open, yellow and brown, massive bodies leaning inward, waiting for my command.

Brown big one with the missing ear has one paw in the air, standing to attention, smaller grey one's nose moves rapidly.

"Go on," I say, hand slightly giving a direction. "Find it."

My ability works the same on them as my words, underlying my command.

_Find it. Sniff. Find it. Go. Chase, hunt, find._

The runt of the litter sprints over the courtyard, a shot out of a loaded gun, a wired form of grey and white leaping. Her big brother follows tail, nose on the ground, tail wagging a moment.

They are concentrated, that is good. I am not. I haven't slept all night.

The crescent of moonshine is only slowly disappearing in the distance.

A small breeze tickles my skin, tangles in my hair. At my feet, the third dog whimpers low.

"Stop complaining. You'll run and fight again in no time," I mutter, and my hand finds its way between his ears, scratching them once. "More than I can say for myself."

His only answer is a tongue hanging out of his mouth and chaps slightly lifting.

On the other side of the courtyard, between cracked stones and neatly groomed bushes, the pair of dagger-teethed dog has started to circle, sniffing.

They're close enough ending this little exercise.

But then they get distracted.

I can feel it through the air and my loose leash on them, and I see it in the way their ears turn back and flatten.

The box is big, brown and the boy that held my spiders disappears almost behind it as he drags it over the courtyard.

My uncle has drilled the dogs with his own hatred toward red blood, and they have been yelping, growling and intimidating servants. They both stop now, paws suddenly frozen, and then the runt growls low.

It is a sound vibrating through them when she shows her teeth and pushes her lips back. It bristles along her back. The boy makes himself as small as possible in hopes of averting any attack.

"You know he let them get a taste of blood when they were just puppies," a voice behind me makes me turn fast, head snapping in the direction.

My father has decided to ruin my meditation and exercise. He looks only slightly in the direction of the dogs and the boy.

I take my time to answer.

"They are fighters. Hunters. Killers. Not lap dogs."

Slight amusement furrows his brow. "Then why do I always find at least one sleeping at your feet out here?"

"Even a killer needs a nap sometimes." I press my mouth into a thin line. "I soon will be gone, and they will be back biting out your little internal struggles in your study discussions."

I still haven't called off the dogs, nor have I goaded them. I just watch them. My father doesn't sit down beside me.

They sniff. Their noses move rapidly, and so do their bodies when they surround the red boy.

He lets them. He doesn't try anything, not petting them , because that would be foolish. He wasn't afraid to pick up the spider, but he clearly is afraid now.

They smell it.

I pull at their invisible leashes and make them turn.

They trot back to me slowly. The boy drags the box away hasty.

"You're avoiding me, Daliah."

An obvious observation.

The runt sits down on her hind legs at my knee. Missing ear just drops down next to my father.

He sneezes, huffing sound in the silence between us and the busy footsteps moving behind along the hallways and sounds from the kitchen.

"I have no words for you. And not only because of my state of affairs but because of your behavior. You let yourself get neutered by your brother and Calpurnia." My voice sounds hard, but I mean what I say. My fingers start to sink into the white and grey dogs fur, combing more than petting. "Don't let them do this."

He watches me, clasping one wrist under his dark sleeve with his other hand. "Your uncle is the head of the House and the older one."

My fingers hold tightly to the fur, burrowed deep. They feel the way all the muscles move in the predatory body. I try to ground myself with this touch. But somehow it reminds me of the way I linked my fingers onto Samson's arm and it leaves the wrong taste in my mouth. "He is an angry old man. He is shortsighted. I know you are the voice of reason behind most decisions. You always were."

My father looks at me, long, as if he can see something in my face I don't. His eyes are bright when they study me. "Most old men are either angry or grieving this days."

I only scoff softly, a long mocking exhaling of air that moves my chest under the tight black fabric of my dress.

"Imagine Loren taking the privilege from him. Is that what you want for us? You have seen how he treated me."

My father shakes his head. "Well, you made your point. But this conversation is over. Especially after the way you treated every kind of family the last year."

My limbs get stiff, my shoulder blades hurt when I hold the tension inside. " I know about my mistakes. I work on getting in good graces if you haven't noticed. And fine, let yourself be run over and be mistreated. I know how that feels. It was just a friendly advice, from daughter to father."

"From daughter to father." He repeats the words slow. As if they are a small black form long dead but embedded in amber.

* * *

A smashing sound rings up to my ears when my feet drag over the ground.

A few heads turn, here and there, never too long.

I have the reservation to weave myself through fighting bodies and clothes crinkled under the pressure of movements. I have also the right amount of respect to greet and bow and smile where I need to. The training range is not a perfectly good place to have a friendly talk, but sometimes you have to...improvise. At least I know I will not be outright murdered by the person I search for in public. At least I hope so. Wouldn't want to spoil the happy occasion of a Queen to be with my blood.

Except if she wants it. I am willing to give it for a small price.

Evangeline is deadly.

It only needs one precise swipe of her fingers that sends metal flying. If the target had flesh and bones, it would be ripped apart, it would be bleeding and twitching and then it would stop moving altogether.

I prefer to rely on fangs, stingers and pincers and can't manipulate metal like the Samos, so I choose not to try and say anything about accuracy, technique. But even I know aim and precision when I see it.

"Great shot." I compliment instead. My heels click over slow. The ground makes them a stutter, and they sound too loud, too harsh in my ears. "Lady Samos."

I make myself smaller in front of her, bowing my head slightly. My buckling self knows the deal, like the dogs submission into control. It is laughable. I hate to buckle in front of people, and for once it doesn't make a difference they are younger or older than me. Clinging to the top of my ear, embracing it, the small green body shakes. A poised neck and triangular head, long folded front legs. To remind people that I am animos. And that small things can be dangerous, for their own kind and others.

Her head flings around, sending grey silvery hair flying.

She clearly hasn't expected me- it seems I am very much able to surprise people. Our eyes dance around each other a moment. I feel like I am moving to a rapport under her glare. She can be as pretty as intimidating if she wants to, hard glare, stinging brilliant beauty. She has that from her mother.

And I know she sees right through me. Through compliments that are not enough to take back what can't be taken back, words said in anger the last time we met eye to eye.

My pants and boots are like some odd reminder of her own clothes during Queenstrial, a silent bow to someone able to be impressive and aware of the way of things.

I wear more layers and my usual collar though, to protect me again, thick fabric closing over my skin.

„Lady Viper on the training range." She says my name low, and something in her voice is still familiar, even though I haven't heard it this close for a long time.

"Who'd have thought? I may need a refreshing on combat and concentration after seeing you."

Another useless compliment.

She is not friendly, or warmed up, this is no merry reunion of loving family. But she is acknowledging me talking. Who'd have thought. Not many people give me that small bit of respect.

"I visited your mother, but you were occupied, so I thought I'd try and find you when our schedules don't clash. I needed to congratulate you."

I visited your mother, I say.

We both know her mother doesn't give a second chance often or easily.

I come in peace, and I come in amicable mood. She can take it or leave it.

She lets go of a trained, drilled in thank you, something meaningless.

I wait.

Then she takes a small step towards me. I study her frame, her perfectly calm body that sits in the clothes like a sword in a sheath ready to slice and sing through the air.

Her eyes do the same, but I am sure she isn't impressed.

"Shouldn't you be with Atara?" Evangeline asks.

"She doesn't know yet I am here to accompany her." My smile is almost genuine when I imagine my Viper cousin. "I want it to be a surprise."

I get a glimpse of her teeth a moment, twitching mouth. "She'll be overflown with happiness to see you."

I huff out an amused breath.

I forgot I missed being around her. She is at least not trying to saw the branch I sit on like other family members. Even if her face makes it clear she hasn't forgiven me.

„I wasn't sure I'd see you again after your arrest." Her response is immediate, it is true, and it stings. "You have been away for a while."

"It is never to late to make new friends and rekindle old kinship, yes?" I try to smile at her, but feeling yellow and miserable only makes it seem like a grimace.

Her mouth doesn't answer, a line silent hard. Her eyes do. And I understand them perfectly, clear and just as sharp as her metal shards.

It might be too late for you, they say.

"You earned some unpleasant names."

"I take them for now. Also can we not talk about the arrest? " I try to shrug it off. "Thank you. And I do sincerely regret my behaviour last year. I am unashamed to admit that in public."

"I hereby accept your apology."

So grateful.

My eyes move around a second again, but we are alone in this small radius, as we were the moment I stepped in. I grasp for straws to keep this conversation going. "I thought I would see Lady Titanos here?"

"Has to take protocol." Is her only answer, and in the next moment the next salve of metal shivers through the air and slices through the target floating above.

Hm. Interesting enough, I guess, but expected if you spend most of your life in the mud by the river.

Heels digging in the ground, I look around.

I wish I could stay. I wish I could stay and it would mean anything.

But I have other places to be.

"I suppose I'll see a lot of you again."

"I hope so." My hand wanders up and touches the mantis, careful. "I hope so, cousin."

I am not sure I really hear her voice a moment, a last fling if metal crashing through the air.  
"Repeat yourself and you're done."

A threat, a warning.

We carry on like nothing has happened and say our farewells.

* * *

 

There is some saying about how we are alone. I forgot what exactly it was. I remember it was said to me by my first husband before he died. Unfortunate timing on his part, but amusing somehow- and it rings true.

I suppose we die alone and we live alone.

That is preferable- if you love something, you may lose it, and that only hurts in an inhuman way no one should experience. It pierces right through your heart and leaves you an empty shell trying to pick up the pieces of something shattered.

That is why love is worth nothing. That is why passion is a waste of time. And regret should be too.

I regret only two things in my life. One involves my formerly beloved husband. The other involves my formerly beloved family. Both have led to my downfall. Sloppy execution and mistakes have brought that on me.

Coattails swinging, I don't really care about looking left and right. I need to be on time. So I hurry, with as much poise as my small body can muster after yesterday.

The heels at least make me tall enough. Holding my head up high helps too.

I meet with a beautiful lady of feathery terror halfway through to the meeting point, just in front of a staircase and a lift.

It is the first time I have seen Atara since the Feast. She wears a silk gown, collarbones and one shoulder half exposed, hair a flood of sleek black. She reminds me of poison ivy creeping over a destroyed rain pipe.

Around her throat winds a long chain, closed with the clasp of a talon.

My bird girl.

Her green eyes are perplexed a moment. "What are you doing here?"

"Why hello, dear cousin." I gift her my fake smile, one side curled up. "I came to accompany you to the lunch with the other contestants of the Queenstrial. We wouldn't want you to go alone and be outnumbered."

"I asked for Calpurnia to join." Atara tilts her head, a snapping gesture, studying my lack of jewelry, my tied back hair, and my living jewelry.

"Sometimes we need to make due with what we are given." The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

We walk down the stairs in silence. One beautiful young woman in flowing green and her harsh guard. My heels still hack and click, her soles are just brushing and whispering.

"You'd say that." She answers. Then she gives me her own version of the mocking smile when her lips curl into satisfaction or frustration. "I didn't get to say it at the feast. I am so happy for you to get finally married again. And you still didn't tell me your secret. "

My secret not to be inadequate.

I want to hit her pretty face. Just slap her. Push her down the stairs. It wouldn't change a thing, so I refrain from it. My hands are pressed to my sides, shoulderblades tense again.

The whisper sticks to my head without even climbing inside. Samson's promise has made my skin crawl and thrown me off balance.

I'll make sure you notice, he told me, and then we moved on for the rest of the evening as if nothing has happened.

I can remember his pale fingers threatening to crush the moth. Even the smell of his cologne has lingered and set hard into the memory, something as sharp as his face tingling in my nose.

It took a long bath with scrubbing my skin almost bloody to wash him away.

Thinking about it makes my hands sweaty, clammy. I rub them at my coattails when Atara is not looking, moving on.

I am sure he'd find that amusing, knowing he has power over me without even trying. Like some tumour growing in my brain.

My stomach starts eating itself again, irritated rubbing and twisting.

"Marriage, widowhood, you're still alone."

"Oh," she can't stop picking on me, voice low. "I don't think you'll ever be alone again. You showed me that in the arena, remember?"

So she did listen as I told her.


	10. Distinguish

_distinguish_

_-to perceive a difference_

_-to separate into kinds, classes, or categories_

* * *

_**A**_ prism of rainbows glitters over my sleeve, and I blink when I step out.

Real sunshine again instead of neon white lights or air filtered as it usually is in the hallways of the palace or everywhere in a halfway decent room inhabited by silver blooded people in the summer heat.

I don't like it. My scalp starts to tingle to stay outside again for too long.

Glass is the diamonds of our architecture, and it spans around me now in the form of a great terrace, filled up with seats and tables.

We are early, which may be because we just hurried along and down the hall. I have no words to say to her that would not result in a fight or me simply giving in and throwing her down a set of stairs.

Atara shares my disgruntlement. Seeing me accompanying her has rained on her parade again. Evil, evil me, sniffing behind her steps, always knowing better.

She crosses over and moves to the Welle girl, and I let her. I know the drill of what comes next. They'll stick their heads together again and talk about the other girls and women, and when that is finished they just greet them as if they're best friends.

I was a girl once too, even if I didn't have many genuine friends. This is just how it works. Nothing changes at that, even if you are older.  
You pretend everyone is your friend if you have to, and later they can wait for you to shoot them in the back.

Another reason why allies are powerful, but friends are useless.

I hide my chin behind my collar a moment, adjusting it with both hands. The mantis moves lazily up, holding tightly to my ear.

We are animal scryers.

They are our ears and eyes and keep watch, patrolling.

The mantis will soon enough scurry under the tables on this terrace and maybe-

"One more Viper has slithered back into the nest."

Silks move silent and precise.

This one is especially proficient on it, and she is to be feared and respected.

"As always an honor." I bow slow and deep when I turn around. Grey shimmers through the rainbow prisms of light in her dark hair. "So good to see your face again, Lady Ara. The weather suits you, I hope?"

If I'd roll around on the floor in front of her showing my belly I could not be more of a submissive flatterer and savant. I thought getting on Evangeline's good side would be bruising for my ego. I didn't consider the Panther here. But I probably should have.

As I have learned, a surprise is an advantage.

If you're never were people suppose you are, you gain high ground easily.

Also, I suppose, this is as a good place as any for her right now. All the girls bring company.

The company is what counts.

Or does she have her eyes on something else? Hard to say. I can't read thoughts like my future whisper husband after all.

Her brown eyes glide over my stiff uniform like jacket and pants, unimpressed. Despite my heels, some people never fail to make you feel small.

"The weather suits us all," She doesn't let anything show. "Accompanying your cousin again?"

Ara doesn't waste too much time with unimportant weather. She asks questions she already has an answer to. It is a simple check.

She wants to tickle something out of me, she has a reason to be here and wasting her important time as the head of house Iral on me.

"Yes." I keep the answer short. The less I say, the less she can take away from it. "And you're here for your granddaughter, isn't that so?"

She is unbothered by my attempt.

I am nothing to her.

I'd be hurt if Evangeline hadn't done the bulk of threatening me and Atara hadn't made fun smirking about mental torture.

"Yes, Sonya is here to." More eyes for her, more roaming words and information, I suppose. Ara Iral just burns into every twitch in my hands and face.

"How can I be of service?" I am ungainly. If only because I am not sure what she wants.

But she just doesn't tell me. Why would she? It was a very crude attempt.

"The last time I saw you, you were claws deep in Colonel Macanthos face."

If she slapped me, she might not stun me as much. It is a simple truth people don't speak about. My uncle likes to joke about it with disgust, and my other family members hint at it ranging from worry about reputation and outright mockery.

_I am the merry widow._

_I am bad luck. I am claws and poison._

And yes, I started trying to beat a seasoned military figure with the ability to turn her skin to stone in a physical assault without much prowess.

But Ara isn't done to recall that, oh no.

"And if I remember correctly, she broke your nose while you promised to kill her and bring it to an end."

Slicing scars into her skin and teeth of an animal at her too until blood splattered over my face. An ugly memory.

Acid rises along with that memory in me. It burns in my throat like I need to vomit again, and it tickles on my tongue to say something harsh, something insulting, anything really.

"Luckily, I had a healer to my disposal," I try to keep every muscle in my face under control when I smile. "We were all heated and hurt by a loss that day. The gracious Lady and the Colonel both understood."

"You finally made your peace with them?"

"It took way too long." My hands wrangle with one another a moment, fingers gripping to each other tightly in front of my body. "But it is settled and laid to rest."

It isn't. They swept it under the rug, but I am never going to be finished. Not with any of them, least Ellyn Macanthos.

They all hate me. And I send them swarms of biting bugs in return for their attention.

Ara knows that. Irals are just as silently scattered through ranks and positions as my bugs are in my room, lids half open and bodies crawling. This woman and her sharp, old eyes know too much about me or anyone else, really.

She stands straight without a failure.

"Sometimes it is better to settle scores and make things even."

It doesn't sound like making peace at all.

"I like that, actually." I mean that. I would love to make scores even. "But perhaps putting myself in the front is a bad call. This is about Lady Evangeline and Lady Mareena as much as your granddaughter and my Viper cousin. Let the girls enjoy this, up until the Parting Ball." I let the rest speak for itself. Let my eyes look around. I am clearly too old to fall for the glitter or indulge in it. "No reason to steal a spotlight from the young and enthusiastic, yes? We know how it works."

She tilts her head slightly, dark hair run through with silver moving slightly. " There is a massive flaw in your logic."

Her brown eyes very aware of the way my hands cup the mantis, she only slightly pushes her eyebrows together.

"You are as much girl to me as any of the others."

"You are kind." I thank her, but it is a flat out lie, cause there isn't much kindness for me or anything in that statement. "I haven't been called a girl for a while."

Her eyes move slightly, taking in something moving behind me.

Her granddaughter has joined the merry conversation, it seems.

"What a surprise." Sonya Iral has a pleasant enough voice. I am unimpressed, even if she is very beautiful, all showing off dark skin and perfectly formed lithe body.

The mantis on my ear pinches me to keep myself in check.

"Lady Sonya, way too long since I got to see you. I just told your grandmother that the weather suits you all better than me."

She takes one of my hands, sharp grey nails burning on my skin and the edges of my sleeves. She could scratch me, digging into my skin, and she wouldn't be more efficient to make me too aware of her physical presence.

I squeeze softly. Remember how Samson squeezed my hand so hard he left bruises on multiple occasions.

"It's so exciting to see you again."

We gift each other fog and poison in smiles and words before we let go of each other.

"Likewise. I promise we will see each other again often."

_Will we?_

I told Evangeline I would hope so. Ara Iral picks the small doubt in my voice up easily.

"Have a drink for me at your wedding next week."

"They say wine and poison taste the same," I shrug nonchalantly, looking at my fingers.

"The next thing you'll tell me fire is hot and guns shoot bullets." She is as unimpressed as one can be.

My fingers are like some puppet master now, releasing the small green body between us. It wanders over to her, crawls along with the glass structure beside her spanning over our heads, crawling above. It's hard for the poor creature. It slips over the glass in trying to find a grip. Without a second thought and very fast, as was to be expected, Sonya Iral's hand shoots forward and catches it between her fingers. At first, I am reminded of the moths again.

But Sonya Iral doesn't exactly look as murderous. She is nonetheless holding my poor critter. I wait for another breath for her to release it.

"We will try to eat here." Ara says. "Keep your pet on your head or nose or whatever you find _fashionable_."

The mantis scatters and scurries over the flat reflecting plate of the ground, making the tiniest bit of noise.

I let it crawl up my boots, up my leg and my collar up to the ear again.

"Of course." I nod over to the Iral girl watching with confidence and a bit of satisfaction how I am hit over again by her grandmother. "I wish you a pleasant day."

She loses my line of sight when I make my way over to Atara and Heron. I look back over and another girl has joined in on the Iral one. Flocking together almost sorted by the tactical operations and abilities their houses have. Red hair, Haven.

I get tired and bored with all the pretty girls slowly. Meaningless as always.

The mantis moves slowly down to my shoulder. At the ready.

Not too close to Ara again, though, because she has warned me.

"Getting friendly again, cousin?" She blinks.

I do not bat an eye. "Some people care what I have to say."

Atara just smirks a bit at that, and Heron draws up her shoulders a moment as if to hold in an amused breath.

"Look at Evangeline. She will just sputter platitudes again."

_Ah, they are at it again._

"Well, at least she knows what this is all about." Atara barely defends her, and if I didn't know better, I'd say she is close to rolling her eyes. She does keep her posture and relatively neutral facial expression, though. "Titanos just stumbles through."

I shift my weight, search around with my eyes, until I find a familiar silver-haired frame. Tempered in steel, that seems a fitting description for Evangeline Samos, not only for the metal bending but her whole approach and attire, posture and course, they'd talk about Evangeline, because jealousy is yellow, and as Atara so eloquently said: "she was born to win".

And of course they'd babble about our girl from the mud suddenly reintroduced as the heir of a lost house. I huff only slightly at the sight of her. Brown eyes, small thing, doesn't know a thing about what she is going to have to endure. But as always, the weather sucks any empathy out of me.

Atara and Heron hold their heads high, chattering with the same meaningless and nasty strike they often express when it gets to people that aren't them.

They feel a little cheated for their second prize, I'd suspect, because that girl just fell into the pit and unleashed something. I remember the princes both, never really cared for them more than I needed. I remember my husband talking about the older one, sometimes, but I barely know anything about his younger brother. But I'd suspect anyone can be happy neither Heron or Atara hold enough weight to marry Prince Maven. When I throw over another look , I see Ara Iral not very shyly glancing at our dear new lady at court.  So perhaps that is the interest that drives her here. Curious, if she is interested in Titanos, I should be too.

"Don't throw stones in a very literal glass house, girls." That is all I say. "They beat you to be a Princess and they beat you to a marriage. But they beat you for a reason. Someone is always better, I told you."

_And wouldn't I know?_

"Do you think we will hear more about.."Atara chokes on the words a little. "Well, the Scarlet Guard."

"It was terrible." Heron leans closer to my cousin, birdlike face a little tense. "I heard about another incident in another city."

It fits Atara to be her friend. The Lady of birds and the girl with the name looking like a delicate one.

Yes, we all have our own share of thoughts about Reds trying to rebel. Nothing is more clear. It lurks underneath the air like it has been since the day of the broadcast, the burning buildings. And the rumors.

"Literal glass, my darlings, " I repeat.

We glare at each other, and for once I win a fight fought with eyes. Heron's eyes move away first.

Then I move on and away, heels loud and head high. I'll be having their pleasure soon enough again.

A pair of pale blue eyes follow me. I know I can't ignore it, and it sends the same tingling shiver down my spine as it did back in the box at the Queenstrial.

The Queen is watching me.

Elara Merandus.

Watching me from above in between her Sentinels and high seat, for whatever interesting reason.

I slightly bow, face twisting into the same fake smile I gave earlier.

I earn a nod. A small, sharp gesture. My heart shrivels and my pulse races.

 


	11. Qui Vive

_on the qui vive_ **  
**

_-on the alert or lookout_

_-on vigilance_

_-on being observant_

* * *

**_T_** he ants march along the gap between the matt and shining stone. My heels scrape over the floor disharmonic, disturbing. They miss the street barely, so very delicate petite bodies out of balance a moment.

I feel the ants as a part of myself when I stretch myself, fingers brushing over a pillar, cold, smooth.

You'd think scrubbing servants and chemicals would purge most of the smallest part of the fauna in the palace. Maybe they just return too fast. A miracle.

The mantis was a brave but too obvious choice, and making it crawl along the glass with Ara watching was just me showing off in a non-humble way.

This is a little different. Animal control and scrying make for some interesting things to notice. You only need to play it right.

My father wanted me to be a fly for him, Larentia told me to be a scorpion, and I promised her my talents at her disposal.

Well, I can be a hundred flies and a thousand scorpions.

It all depends on the logistics, I suppose. And it depends on how careful I have to be. I have little ambition to get caught again.

The system is easy, very simple, really.

 _Dear Cousin,_ I write the first time when I return from another gathering oogling every girl and the respective members of their houses as well as being watched again by Elara Merandus. I feel very cold whenever I force myself to think about it. I'll have to make the very best out of that attention.

_I hope this finds you in good health and agreeable mood. We seem to miss each other on most gatherings and the palace is so big I might get lost trying to follow you- so better not try, yes?_

_My head hurts. It must the small changes from the air conditioning and stepping outside the gardens in the palace the whole day. You know I hate the sun.  
_

_I saw a Shrike there today. Did you know Shrikes impale insects on thorns to eat them? It was much more impressive to watch than you'd assume. It is still no match for your favorite bird, of course. That one is not only much bigger and well trained but much more dangerous. Bird of Prey need a strong hand and control. I believe a Shrike couldn't do as much damage. I know I mishandled it the last time you let me take control, and it might never forget, but the next time I'll try to be more careful if you and the hawk let me._

_The dogs had a little quarrel, the older brother has gained another victory and control over the pack. Silly, I know, but they make so much noise, you hear them through all the house._

_I am afraid they are getting old slowly, but for now, they are still useful tools and good dogs._

_The other old inhabitants of my boxes are fine. I don't want to bore you with more old talks about mantis and snakes or beetles and spiders. You know them well enough. You, of all people, always know how they bite, how they wait._

_And sometimes, how they are tamed or appeased, at least. There are too many wild creatures, and just as much cold blooded._

_Oh, I almost forgot, I was thinking about getting some additional space to make room for something more predatory. You know how it is with wolves and panthers, all those big predators prowling, would you be willing to assist me if I set up something?_

_It has some time after I am married, of course. I will need to settle with my dearly beloved second husband._

_With only the best wishes and Yours truly,_

_Daliah_

After I am married. I want to puke. My stomach and my head seem to take the stress badly.

How long until I am quietly given away? Five days? My loan on having my head for myself is small. Settle with Samson. I could try to negotiate, make a decent agreement with him, but somehow I am very sure we both share the sentiment of getting the better end of the deal, and that won't work out right now. I am not letting him in, and if he does as he promises, as Atara makes crude jokes about, I'll be sure to notice.

I am not talking about any fear or worries in the letters. That would be silly and sentimental and reckless. I give in to my paranoia, but that was to be expected. Better stay on guard.

Larentia doesn't answer that first letter. I don't really expect an answer. Probably just when I am about to receive instructions of some kind, and even that on paper could be dangerous.

 _Dear Cousin,_ I write a second time in late night. It is very dark in my room, with only some small white and red lamps attached. The white snake has curled around my throat, weaving in my dark hair, warm and soft, almost comforting.

_My headache remains. It may just be the weather, with rain approaching somewhere._

_The dogs are friendly, as far as they can be._

_Bird watching is a fascinating hobby and just continues to be. Still, miss the grace and prowess your hawk has to offer, but the Shrike was almost tame today beside her thorny branch._

_The other inhabitants in my glass cages are doing well. I only miss a scorpion now, like when we were younger._

_I was thinking since I am not sure how much space I really can claim to set up anything for creatures as big, maybe something smaller, something more compact, would do?_

_How about...a fox? Sneaky small creatures, always underestimated, and very pretty too. I'd definitely not underestimate a fox, even if it lacks the obvious aggressive use that other animals have to offer. Also, they come in lovely shades. Speaking as women who wear animals._

_Otherwise, I may just stick to my own little sets of critters. The latest addition to my wishlist is so rare, I was sure it was extinct! Can you imagine my surprise hearing that it isn't? Comes with a rather interesting mix of purple too. If you want me to, I can tell you about them later. Funnily enough, it was our dear and very much still sharp Ara Iral bringing it to my attention I don't ever wear butterflies? Moths, that one time, but that was the closest I ever got. She is right, I should branch out!  
_

_Did I tell you poor Cyrine Macanthos got stung by a wasp? Poor thing didn't even notice it, else she would have probably just transformed her skin. Unfortunate.  
_

_I still look for the perfect dress for my wedding. Ah, such a short time, it really isn't fair!  
_

_With love and Yours truly,_

_Daliah  
_

Oh dear, I must appear terribly self-centered in this and halfway transparent for anyone that can put two and two together. Still, no evidence is produced. All I do is talk about dresses and animals. That will have to do.

When I receive a box on the third day, I know I do something right.

The Red Boy with the narrow hands doesn't look at my face. He just puts the glass box down on the table in front of me. His hands shake. It makes a small shattering sound, and the creature inside shakes a little.

A black scorpion lurks on the edge, stinger and pincers glittering, molten darkness reborn.

I smile.

* * *

In between watching Atara, not letting anything that could be remotely interesting slip and not trying to lose my composure whenever my way crosses Samson's path, I can feel the in-between of the foundation shaking.

Red people are servants, they are around all the time. They serve, they bow, they die.  
Nothing about that is new or interesting.  
But with that bombs and threats, silver eyes suddenly turn even more hostile and harsh.  
I don't participate, but only because I don't care.

I am in control.  
I am keeping my composure, and my tongue, if I have to.  
Love is worth nothing, and passion is a waste of time, I keep telling myself.  
I keep telling myself that through the headaches that make me miserable, the grey lightning of migraine and explosions in my brain. And I keep telling myself that when I have to link my arm through Samson's and walk off.

I sometimes wonder, is he in my head? He told me I would notice. The headaches haunt me when he is not around too. Someone else?

My spine tingles. I remember another pair of blue eyes. _But she wouldn't, would she? What could I give her she doesn't know?  
_

The palace is filled with hateful faces that remember everything. I have around two days left before I am shipped off, robbed off.

He enjoys watching me, I can see it in his blue marble eyes. I suppress twitches and the sour taste in my throat. I keep myself up, shoulders arched, back straight.

When I see her scar, lines running along with her eyes, along her nose, I can feel my pulse quicken.  
I can feel how the heat and the cold chase each other in my veins, the anger, and the hatred, the wish to let loose again and do as I promised when my nails buried deep in her scar-riddled face.

Bring it to an end.

She wears uniform overloading with medals for her honor and her accomplishments. I want to rip them off, I want to steal her honor and all her pride because it is useless.

Ellyn Macanthos glares back.

I want to jump in her face, I want to- to-

To kill her. Simple as that.

He makes one low, disapproving sound, and when he squeezes my arm so tightly he could as well just twist and break it to be done.

It gives him time to drag me away more than I really walk. It redirects the anger, though. For a second he disgusts me so much I forget Ellyn.  
His fingers are maws swallowing mine whole when they goad and mock me, holding on too tightly.

_I hate it I hate it I hate it._

"Can you not be petty for once, _merry widow_?" He asks low, cold eyes, cold voice, giving me chills to the marrow.

"I wasn't about to-" Is all I say before I catch myself and remember who I am talking to. "Never call me that again."

His hand glides away from my fingers over my wrist, resting on my elbow. It looks very pale on the black, stiff coat fabric. They still bite through and leave the tingling sensation of disgust, continuing to work their way into my system.

"People gave you that name for a reason."

We are black and blue like bruises on red-blooded skin, reflecting in the glass ceiling raining light on us.

"People  have no clue." I barely speak, breathing through my mouth, hissing through my teeth. 

He raises one eyebrow, slightly. "I think corpses speak for themselves, widow."

He hurts me. But he doesn't let go of me. I struggle in his grip.

He has no clue, just like the rest of them. Amusing for a mind reader. 

"You say passion is a waste of time." His voice could be in my head already, it's low and his lips seem to move barely. "What is your hatred?"

I rip myself out of his grip. Just as the anger has lingered, his voice does too. _You say..._

And then I realize something.

My pulse rushes in my ear, it stops for a moment. Burns through me again.

I turn around on my heels without a word and try not to stumble and stagger as I move. As far as my numb legs will take me in the desperate attempt not to puke.

Suddenly I know how it feels when the dogs hunt something to grab it between their dagger teeth. Because there are footsteps chasing me.

The air hits my face in a wave when I make it around the corner. It rushes loudly over my head, a small cool breeze for everyone trapped in the hallways. It still tastes stale when I take one long breath.

"I never said that out loud." I can barely breathe. Sweat runs along my collar. I feel pale, blood drained. "I never said to anyone that passion is a waste. I only-"

That makes him stop for a moment.

I only thought about it.

"How is your head, Lady Viper?" He asks, looming over me.

For once in my life, I am very thankful for the cameras and eyes watching me from below the doors and endless paths.

They stop me from screaming at him.


	12. Valediction

_valediction_

_-the act of saying goodbye, especially formally_

* * *

 

 _ **D** ear Cousin_,

That is all I write.

Air leaves my lungs in a heave when I put the pen down. I blink into the bright light and grey explodes before my eyelids when I press them together. I feel a small echo of the pondering pain that hasn't left me the last days. I take a moment longer, massaging over my temple as my father always does. My fingers are sweaty. Then I pick the pen up again, tip shaking.

_This is my last night as a merry widow._

Do I really need to write it down? I am sure she knows. The pen scrapes over the paper too loud and contorted.

_My headaches are getting worse. I may be in need of a healer soon._

What this really says is blatantly clear.

Help me.

But I know no one will help me.

I can only help myself. Because that is the truth, how we live and die alone.

 _I have reordered all my boxes and animals because I will not leave them behind when I leave the Viper residence._  
_If in the worst case I am still unable to take them, they are yours to do as you please with._  
_Attached is a list with their special needs, food, and other intricacies that may be interesting to you when you have to handle them._

_I may take some more time to write again. I suppose I won't see you as a witness and guest at my marriage. I am very much fine with that. It will be over fast._

_Yours truly,_  
_Daliah_

The skittering animals in my boxes and hidden behind glass make low sounds, tapping on it, creeping along it. I put the pen down again, finished this time, and turn around.

The black scorpion shakes his stinger slightly for me.

I open the lid carefully and put my hand inside.

It climbs over me with ease, and I cup it in my hands as careful as I am able to touch anything. The pincers shake and twitch. I slowly touch it's back, handling the creature with care.

Scorpions can adapt very well to circumstances. They can adapt their metabolism, slow it down, so they don't starve. I should take after that.

There is -of course- no visible reaction to my touch. The creature is under my control.

I touch the scorpion one last time and put it safely back.

Wandering around the estate the rest of the night, watching all the life brimming around me. It is in the small things.

You can feel the presence of so many eyes and heartbeats. They lurk, they sleep, they dream, even.

Everyone in this house holds onto leashes to comfort themselves.

I have found out young that you are always alone and can never truly rely on each other. Alienated almost.

We borrow each other time and creatures,  maybe comfort, and we act in unity only in public.

We are engraved in that knowledge, and we feel it true the first time we lose something.

My hands claw at each other.

In the end, I find myself alone in the dining room, in front of a flickering screen. I don't watch the flashing lights. It hurts me.

I close my eyes tightly and only sit here.

There is no more repetition of the instance that shook us.

No burning bridges and burning building no more. It is as if someone has deleted the collective memory.

I suppose if you don't show it, it will simply try to be ceased as a threat in heads. Silence is effective as a stylistic choice or a way to protect yourself.

I have so much to do. And I can't find the strength in my body to move again now. Instead, I sit on the dark table, small scratches and other traces proof of its longevity.

I let myself be hunched, hands gripping the armrests of my seat.

Paws click over wood.

The next thing I feel is a wet nose on my palm.

His missing, ripped ear is put flat back against his head. Body and tail lowered, he creeps around me.

In the flashing light, he looks even bigger than usual, brown and grey fur bristling.

So the dog has found me in my desolation and decides to keep me company.

The other two are nowhere to be seen.

"Did you sneak away, boy?" I whisper. "Outsmarting my uncle easily, I see."

I earn a whimper and lean down slow on the creaking chair. His head moves up when I touch it slow. Then I give his head a scratch.

I turn the screen off and sit down again in the complete darkness soothing the pain in my head. The dog's yellow eyes and moving nose follow me through the task.

"It's alright." I lie badly. To a dog. Late in the night. Then I scratch it again. "We knew this would come, yes? We need to make the best out of it now. A little change of plans. But I am not defeated yet."

The dog presses his head into my lap. I continue to pat along its matted fur.

"Not defeated yet," I repeat.

* * *

 

Atara appears silent. She is barefoot with her hair loose and her face smeared, angry streaks of black that used to look pretty on her green eyes.

"I believe there is a gift for you."

"A gift?" I ask.

Her eyes burn a hole in my head. "Do you have some of your bugs in your ears? Yes, cousin, a gift. For you. In the dining room."

It sits on the dining table where I have been sitting half the night with the dog. A large flat box closed with a big green ribbon.

Flattery from my family?

Atara watches me from her space on the doorstep, angry strands of black hair surrounding her green eyes.

With two ripping moves, I untangle the ribbon, open it greedy.

There is no note on top or anything to indicate where this comes from. Nothing.

Under another layer of wrapping my fingers feel over something hard, tiny, and the softest fabric I have ever touched.

The dress is venomous green and black, soft but sparkling, dazzling in contrast to my stiff, bleak black and cobwebs of lace.

I am positive I have never owned any dress this pretty.

Not even when I first got married I wore something this brilliant.

Atara has moved closer. I catch a whiff of something bittersweet when she leans in.

"Oh." She just says. No pricks or mockery. She values beautiful clothes. Of course, she would like this. I unfold the dress in all its length, put it on the table.

Between my fingers, I feel the trickling gems, almost smell the lush green color.

"Someone knows you well enough to choose something that makes you look halfway pretty."

I search the box again. "No note."

"Oh," Atara repeats, moving head curious like her birds. "A secret benefactor?"

Her eyes nail the next figure that dares to almost run along the hallway. The boy has gained a scratch on his face, red blood dried.

"You there. Red." As if it wasn't obvious enough, she reminds him easily of where he stands in this room, below her feet.

"Yes, Lady Viper?" The boy mutters, eyes not able to look at our faces, brushing over Atara's naked shoulder, creeping away again hastily.

"Noticed any colors on the messenger that brought this? Did they say something?"

His eyes are glued to a dust particle in the air floating down in one ray of light falling through the glass windows. "No, Lady Viper."

He shrinks and continues to do so under Atara's eyes until she makes him hurry off with a swatting gesture that reminds me of her father.

"Do you want it? Else I will burn it." I push a strand of hair behind my ear before touching the fabric again.

I don't trust in this secret gift.

Atara wrinkles her nose. "You're not going to wear it?"

"No. Not without knowing where it came from."

She is still not letting go of it until she can drag it down.

"You're marrying today and you don't want to wear the only decent clothing you own."

I don't think about clothing at all. She knows that too well. It is laughable. "Don't worry, you can do my hair if it bothers you so much."

She shrugs. "I guess it is a farewell gift."

"You think you get rid of me ?" I shake my head weakly. "Don't count on it be any different for you now that Queenstrial is over."

The time flows by as fast as the water flows quietly into the tub.  
A fragrance hangs in the air, green, sour, and intense. I take another breath and something sweet follows the sour up my nostrils.  
I haven't told anyone about what has happened in the hallway. That is why the bruises are the only visible reminder that it truly has happened.  
His fingers have left marks along my arm, rings circling around the skin above my elbow, and splotches and spots showing like prints of his thumbs on my wrists.

I don't feel much pain. I have been hurt a lot worse. Atara's kick has hurt more in the long run.

It is that thing with his head that makes me want to scream.

Goodbye merry widow, my face says without a tone in front of the mirror, tasting it. Lady Viper, married again in what...an hour?

I take too long in the bathroom. I scrub my skin until it almost breaks, sensitive and shivering.

My father glares at me when I make it down the set of stairs, fingers lingering over the railing. It take in every bit of this place, store it inside me.

It isn't my home.

But is it better than the place I go?

Undoubtedly.

"Of course you wouldn't wear that dress." He sounds frustrated , eyeing my dark heels and black collar, up to the tips of my hair Atara has curled and braided with green tinted metal out , harshly pulled back. Fathers and daughters, the evil curse.

"Your gift?" I offfer a hand.

"No." He takes the hand. "I have no idea where it came from. I thought it was Larentia's."

I smile. The scorpion sits on my left side, above the stiff black on my upper body like a brooch.

When we make our way outside, into the courtyard, I find the windows filled with figures. Atara stands to the right in her own room, arms crossed. I thought she'd smirk.  She probably tastes this victory soon enough.  Her brother just leans next to her, and he looks almost smug.

Calpurnia and my uncle have taken position on the bright windows at his study.

Vultures.  All of them. They keep their distance to a gathering of more than one mind reader.

My father holds my hand in his palms. The sleeve crumbles and slips up. He looks at the bruises curled along my wrist, half revealed under the slipping sleeve. He moves my hand slightly in his grip. He doesn't say anything about it though. Neutered and silent.

"It will go over fast." He assures me. His voice sounds hoarse suddenly, he barely mutters. "Barely anyone cares with two brides inside a palace."

"Degraded second sons and widowed daughters, only cousins, never too close to power," I sigh, shake my head. "Just say it is as it is."

"Stay calm," he whispers. "I will come by tomorrow for another transaction I have to finish and sign."

I scoff softly and hold my head high. The scorpion shakes its pincers. "I would normally care about what you traded me for. Right now just let us get it over with."

He gives me a look with raised eyebrows. We almost have crossed the courtyard.

I hear the dogs howling in the distance, piercing through the summer air.

 

 


	13. Spectre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am putting a warning on this. Yep your usual mental abuse business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted the draft yesterday sry for the misleading upload. Fixed afaik.

_spectre_

_-a visible disembodied spirit, ghost_

_-something that haunts or perturbs the mind_

* * *

 

 _ **W**_ ords are ash and lies, and they get stuck in my throat when I say them.

I pledge and accept and promise, and he holds my bruised hands inside his grip like a trap snapped shut.

Unsurprisingly, people keep away. 

Of course no other Viper than my father has accompanied me. Larentia or the Samos too are nowhere to be found. They send their regards in form of a henchman and that is it. Nothing valuable. 

My head seems to explode. The scorpion shakes irritated on me most of the time.

Palms sweaty, scalp tingling too tightly, my feet beg me to run. My hands beg me to fight.

I am somewhere caught between amusement, anger and fear.

Just as the second wedding, the second hasty decision making, the small festivity for very high standards(silver people do love their weddings, their funerals, and their parties, don't we? ), I am sure this second wedding night will be a disappointment. On my first time, I was nervous, scared. I feel a million times older now, and I want to laugh until I can't breathe, just because this feels like I am very much trapped. I am also very literally trapped in this house and in this room.

I should be much calmer. The world always proves to me anyway I only get what I don't want and never what I deserve, no matter how hard I work.

And I don't want to give him anything from me if he should decide to read my mind.

Everything in my new surrounding seems too cold, visible radiating cold elegance, clearly in some attempt to recreate and imitate someone or something else. It is bright too.

I wonder a second how he used to decorate his rooms if it's always like this. So quiet. So artificial. I guess cruelty can be artificially beautiful. What else would it hide behind more easy?

But it does not matter now.

I have nothing anymore. I am now completely bound and may as well just lock myself inside the room that seems too big without my animals.

I have made my plans without my husband, though.

Everything seems too big as I miss all the moving bodies and glass, the bed with it's carved poles, the lamps that flicker and throw too long shadows.

I should have taken the scorpion, I feel naked, even if I do still wear a heavy dark robe and have my hair spilling over my neck.

„It's done now, merry widow," he says, his voice raking over me. A tingle of discomfort is all it brings. "Welcome to your new home. _"_

_Home? Don't make me laugh. We both know it is not._

„No longer appropriate to call me a widow then, don't you think?" My eyes wander. If I could unlock every door to run away only to barricade it behind me and burn this place, I would.

Sleek hair slightly more tousled, he doesn't wear blue anymore. Now he's just in a white shirt. I see his collarbone and want to break it, the pale curve of a throat, moving when he swallows.

He moves over on step, blue eyes firm, studying my thin frame, arms crossed tightly. Almost suspicious a moment. Samson never seems to look at me as if he ever could appreciate beauty. I am not sure he has a passion for anything. And I don't intend to find out. Not this way, at least.

„I was sure you'd bring your bugs and spiders," he explains. He is clearly disgusted, a deep visceral feeling that brims through his skin and sharp cheekbones.

„I can still return with a scorpion or some snakes. Maybe they'd like to keep you company in bed." A promise, an old joke, a story. The poison bride comes to my mind again and Samson knows it.

_They found the groom dead, it is said, with no more blood but only venom flowing in his veins._

„You would know about poison, wouldn't you?" He asks. I feel my fingers go numb. "No, I'd rather keep this between the two of us."

„Will there be something to keep?" I ask, throwing my hair back over my shoulder and ignoring another flash of white before my eyes. „This bores me, truth be told. You bore me. And if you even try to touch me, I think I will just empty the content of my stomach over you."

And I should not have said that. I can see it in the way his nose wrinkles and fingers twitch. I shiver in my robe and cross my arms harder.

„I could simply make you do whatever I wanted." He offers the words like a knife.

„And you wouldn't do anything ever again," I promise. "I have left the scorpion behind that door. Test it."

He smiles. I flinch almost. It is like I have cut myself on some glass. Takes one step towards me. Then another. One more, maybe, and I will make him regret it. I don't take easily on threats. Not by someone that can easily make them true.

„You challenge me, that is not fair at all."

I huff out a mocking breath.

United in disgust, we just watch each other a moment, not unlike that match I watched him fight not too long ago, not too different from all the beautiful young women competing in Queenstrial. Well, since I will never have anything else until the fortunate day Samson dies, I might as well fight it. I move first. It was a long day, I won't stand here the whole time waiting for him to..do what exactly? He hurts me all the time. My bruises prove it true. Am I waiting for him to circle around until one of us attacks?

I am too old for this. Not a shrieking girl. I can't run anywhere now anyhow.

"Leave me alone." I decide to demand. "Good night, wherever you may spend it."

I slip under the cover of the bed, sprawl myself over the sheets and watch him.

He moves, slow. He has all the time in the world. He doesn't decide to leave.

„Where is that anger that almost made you burst in Ellyn Macanthos face?"

I ignore him.

I am sure it stings on his ego.

With his head held high, he simply sits down beside me. _Crooked bastard._

Close enough to make me not forget he is there, but out of reach to touch me, at least.

I don't say a word, turning away from him and simply ignoring his existence.

I force myself to stay awake.

He doesn't leave. He stays on his spot beside me on the bed, watching, eyes burning in the back of my head, tickling on my spine. He is like some ethereal bright poltergeist. I can feel him shift sometimes, and I hear our breath in the utter and total darkness that could swallow armies whole.

I promise myself to stay awake the whole night and if I have to, I will pinch and bend myself to make sure he either falls asleep first or gets lost.

It is a long night.

The way we wait and breath is like animals on the hunt. We prowl and lurk, wait for each other to make a mistake.

In the end, my eyes must flutter close, because even if I don't remember falling asleep, I dream.

* * *

I dream about my old home that night. And it isn't a pleasant dream. Some strange emulsification of memories washes over me. At first, it is just small things. The way I sit between my belongings, my hands closing around lids, pulling them off.

The memory of feeding a snake, forcing the mouse into its enclosure and watching as it opens its maw. The way the feet twitch and the small bundle of fur gets swallowed.

It is not a special memory. But it is a small, good one.

Then I just remember touches and details, like the way one of the shutters is bending, that the grass has two yellow patches that only recover under silver power, flowing and blooming again. I remember the flowers that were planted there, flowers I never really looked at anyway because I preferred to stay inside the house if I could.

_Ellyn notices the flowers before me even though they are here for weeks, one scarred face distorted in my memory because it smiles. I look at the blooming green and violet without much enthusiasm._

_"They are pretty. I suppose. " That is all I say._

_"How can you not notice?" She shakes her head a little. "You are the only person around for longer than a week. You should really just go outside more."_

_"I leave it to you to try and make my wife comfortable with sunshine," Another face. Shots, and blinks of hands, his smile, his laugh, his voice. A decorated jacket with stripes and medals, honor and duty, blood and smoke. A family made of stone and war and loss. "She flees it like a bat."_

No, no, no- I don't know if anything leaves my throat. I know I shake and crumble violently under what I had and never could really keep.

I can' escape their voices. I can't escape the memories.

_"Is that the most creative pun you can come up with ?" I cross my arms. Bats? Really._

_Same old jokes, a new family to expand on it, I guess._

_Ellyn is unimpressed. She just looks down on me, freckles, riddled, rough face._

_"You are small and love to wear black. Of course, he'd say you are a bat. He is not a very creative man."_

_I roll my eyes. She huffs._

_What's the matter?_

_What's wrong?_

I feel heavy, somehow.

Some part in me does not want to be reminded about it.

But my dream has led me through my home already, and my dead husband is part of it.

 _Why so heavy?_ An unintelligible voice asks. _Is that sadness, merry widow? Here I thought you couldn't grief._

I can't answer the figment of my subconsciousness. I wish I could.

I can feel my body a second, something physical in this strange astral world filled with memories.

My hands twitch, and I throw my head around. I can't wake up.

I feel as if I am held in place, and I can never escape.

_Dark hair braided, flinging over an arched shoulder and tense back. I see myself small and helpless in the reflection on the glass. I lean against the windowsill and almost poke my nose against the glass._

_My reflection in the window looks so young. I don't wear black. I wear green._

_"We can just get it over with."_

_I make the proposal with a heavy tongue. There's the taste of wine of my lips. The world is a twisted blur around me._

_"You are shaking."_

_He sounds rough, gruff, but somehow friendly. I stumble a step back, hissing hands trying to hold me upright._

_"I am just nervous." I try to play it down. "Let us just ..I don't know, do what has to be done and move on."_

_He sees through my shaking hands and watering eyes. He pities me, I see that, and I hate it, I hate it with seething eternal anger._

_"Go to bed and get that liquor out of your system. I'm too tired anyway."_

_I sleep curled together on one side of the bed. Listen to his steps. When I wake up once, some spiders wander through the crack in the autumn air, leaving silk strings swaying when the sun goes up._

_I am alone in the room._

_He never joins me that night. Not even for sleep._

I want to wake up. I want to wake up and never, never think about this again. The dream continues shifting. It is like something snaps a switch, opens a drawer, and pulls out the memories with force. I can't control it, but strangely enough, I am very aware it happens.

_"We can make an arrangement," he says after a week._

_I sit between my glass cages and just nod._

_I have it good in this arrangement, mostly. He still pities me for reasons I can't fathom. I don't need it. But at least he lets me go wherever I please when I please, I can have whatever I want, and I can stay with my family or in the capital when the house is too boring and empty._

_He is gone often._

_It means I don't have to be around him, don't have to play the dutiful wife. That should be easy, yes?_

_He has no ambition whatsoever. I fight with teeth and claws for both our reputation._

_Sometimes we sit together, and he willingly listens to me, leaning on his hand, eyes attentive as if I have just revealed the main base locations of the Lakelanders. I like attention, and I find myself talking in those moments, just little things, my plans, my animals. I never ask him much. Only if it helps me._

_And it is fine. He is fine with this._

_Sometimes I force myself to interact in a physical way that never was too pleasant for me. I don't feel fire. I don't feel any passion. Sometimes, when I move over him, there is some sort of ignition, a spark that keeps me at least from being bored, and I finish my task and not talk about it._

_He doesn't hold me. He doesn't try to touch me. Sometimes, after he is away, he is a little pushy. I soothe that demands as best as I can. We have an agreement, after all._

_I don't love him. Love means nothing to me. But I like him, a little, sometimes._

I remember the anger, and the dream turns into a nightmare. I can feel myself tossing and turning, can feel the sound that comes from my lips, but I can still and will perhaps never wake up.

_"You promised you'd accompany me!" I yell at him, force and effect. "What are people going to say now?"_

_"You are smart. Use it to your advantage and gain some flattery." He knows me and my ways. " Keep telling them your husband is brave and fighting courageously for his country."_

_I huff out a mocking breath. "We both know you'll sit somewhere in a tent and wait."_

_His eyebrows draw together. "I don't argue with you about this."_

_I cross my arms. "I hope you die horribly and know it's your fault I am unhappy."_

_He doesn't attempt to talk to me. It is the last time I see him._

A flash of strange, small memories follow, out of order, and it hurts me almost physically. Like some headache, I see a flash of hard white light and I feel a mind-numbing stinging sensation.

I don't want to dream.

Somehow I feel like moving, numb legs. But there is a weight on my chest and it won't let me. As if something sits on me, drains me.

_The piece of metal shatters against the wall, hits a cupboard and throws things off. My foot kicks once, twice, all the while Ellyn tries to talk to me, but I won't let her, I will never let her, because it is her fault, and she takes everything, I deserve more than a piece of metal, MORE._

_I yell at Evangeline Samos in between lights floating over a bright terrace, and she shatters me._

_How would you know anything about how it is to loose? Look whose daughter you are._

_I am alone, alone, alone, and I laugh because I never get what I deserve but I want to and I WILL whatever it takes now._

_Pathetic as usual,_ the voice comments and I want to break out, snap out, punch something, bite and scratch and kick until I am free.

_"No evidence of external forces." The officer says. My wrists hurt in the manacles. "She is free to go."_

_"She poisoned them. Look at her."_

_I don't look up from my fingers, move them up and down. I want to laugh, but my face is tightly pulled into a sneer behind the wild hair. No evidence, he says. No evidence. Free to go._

_Merry widow, merry widow, merry widow I laugh over a grave and don't stop_ -

I am loosing my mind. That must be it.

I wake up with a terribly empty feeling in my stomach and a burning headache.

Everything is grey in the early stages of morning, twilight escaping.

I have tossed and turned, fought in my sleep. The sheets and blankets are everywhere, tangled and forlorn. Samson has left his space on the other side.

With the moon slowly fading, a slick silvery glimmer, Samson is just a shadow made of ash and bright eyes, contrasting to it.

 He _stands by_  the window, slightly leaning forward. For who knows how long, he has been staring at my sleeping face, plagued by bad dreams, that I suppose are not normal bad dreams at all. The worst is, even though he always has something cruel, he watches me almost thoughtful now.

My mouth is dried out. My tongue glued to the back of my throat. He speaks to me first. His voice is cool and quiet. It travels through the void between us. 

"So heavy." It is like the unintelligible voice from my dreams, and if my mouth was dry before, it is withered now. "You can genuinely regret, merry widow. Who would have thought."

People forget. Whispers are to be treated with care.

"And of all your dirty lies and anger and violence you regret that little thing. You do believe you should have been kinder." He seems to find that fascinating and yet it seems to elude him. As if the concept of remorse itself is strange to him. I am unsurprised by that. 

"But you never were kind." He continues. "And now he is dead just as you wanted. You do bring bad luck."

I could yell at him. Instead, the only sound that leaves my mouth is a hiss.

"Get out of my head, snake."

Because I may be a Viper, But the true venomous snake is leaning comfortably watching me.

"I told you I can just get what I want," he explains.

"Do anything to me. I dare you." I finally can move. My feet sweep over the floor, bare toes on cool ground. My hair is a sweaty lump of knots. "I may be not important, but I do have family and friends that are."

For the first time, he seems genuinely amused. Like I told a very good joke. "You don't have friends, merry widow."

"I have a name," I clench my jaw, hands fighting the urge to scratch his blue eyes out. " I have a name and you will use it! And you will never call me that again!"

He gets up, stretching slow and languid, long limbs, towering over me. "You don't have demands to make. Don't try. I call you what I want to call you."

He has won this round. He has won this round and I hate it. I hate it because I know as soon as I leave this room, I will not talk about it to anyone.

I am ashamed of this, and the shame burns pathetic, he is right about that at least. This was just a warning. He has tested me, he has waited and watched like I do when I feed my poisonous friends.

My anger ricochets useless.

If I bring bad luck, I want it to act according to my wishes again.

Strike down this man in rage of flames and thunder and pain.

_Else I will have to do it myself._

"Try," He encourages me, and the air seems chilly.


	14. Faint

_ faint _

_ -lacking courage and spirit _

_ -weak, dizzy, and likely to faint  _

_ -hardly perceptible _

* * *

 

 _ **T**_ he house is smaller and less broad than the Viper residence. Where the Viper residence is flat and a long row of hallway, this house stands taller. It is basically looming over like Samson throws a shadow over me and my head.

Two stories of stone and glass similar to the Hall of the sun. It's closer too. We need our space for creatures of any kind. It makes sense how our- no not our. Their. I am no longer able to go back and hide there.

I have spent the rest of this night alone, curled together in cover, watching the door very closely, waiting for the next attack. This time, I guess, he can burrow even deeper, and he will just take everything.

It hasn't come yet, but it is just a matter of time. We have threatened each other, and he has won, for now. It is a clear and unfair advantage.

I can't scrub myself as much as I would need to. Instead, I just get dressed fast as I can, and I hold my scorpion tightly as if it can protect me if he comes back.

In daylight, it is still too bright. The white and blue only remind me of the flashing migraine. My feet feel cool on the ground, even in heels. Wading through a blizzard barefoot.

It is the noise that draws me closer.

In the smaller and less broad courtyard plastered with dark flat stones, a very familiar narrow form pulls out also very familiar boxes out of a vehicle.

Another pair of Red servants assist, but the boy clearly stutters and mutters to them about something. After I have watched him take the spiders, I hope it is about how they shouldn't drop one of the terrariums and cages. For their own sake. Else it will get ugly and deadly.

My focus is quickly redirected though because as always, I almost physically get overpowered by disgust as soon as I register Samson's presence.

"So, no trace?" Is all my lovely husband says. If I didn't know better I wouldn't say he has spent the night terrorizing me. He looks sleek and groomed, shaved, wearing blue again.

My father stands almost small in between the chaos. One of my uncle's dogs bristles at his legs, ready to leap, one ear. The runt is there too, circling a little behind. She is sneaky and fast. The one that limped is missing, probably because that would not make anyone appear stronger.

I watch it for a moment. I can't hope for my father to simply let them loose so they can bury their teeth into Samson's throat. But one can dream. I imagine them shaking and leaping at him and the blood. So much blood. The image has something relieving for me.

"I have a limited amount of people and an even more limited amount of creatures at my disposal for the whole perimeter to search." He holds his wrist with his other hand again, slightly leaning forward. "I am not sure you understand how much time and distance lies between the incidents and how that affects a trail. Even the best nose has its limits."

I stand very, very still, hold my breath and hope to soak in that information. I suppose very little people can be better at finding things than animal scryers. Cameras are indisposable, but nothing is better than the arsenal of noses, wings, and eyes, all you could ask for to hunt someone in a very traditional and predatory sense. Maybe I am just old fashioned.

"You can make excuses in front of me all you like, people care for results. Taking another approach instead of simply sniffing behind them could be helpful."

"And what would you want us to do? I can't simply massacrate every Red I want. That would be a waste of time and resources."

I wonder if this is about the damage control they talked about after the buildings burned in the capital. Hunting Red Rebels? Trying to find a trace of that, maybe? In the palace, everything is quietly pulled under the rug, after all.

Nothing ever happens in Summerton and around it, how wrong was that assumption of me to make days ago.

My father takes a deep breath. "I will tell you what I told everyone involved in the investigation. My people give their best."

"Let us see how long that will be enough." Samson almost says that matter of fact, mouth a thin line.

It's not a threat. My uncle is Samos loyalist since Larentia married Volo and they continue to make their deals because he profits from it. We are far from being too run down. But we are not a big force to behold like them or the lot of Irals and their affiliates. We lack numbers, and we lack finances, to a certain point, and the most important part of the why? We are not important. We hold no important claims. And my father knows that. He is too afraid to act openly against it, and he will never take over. I am sure of that as I look at him, dark hair and grey temples. His wrinkles are low lines engraved between his eyebrows and on the sides of his mouth in years of disappointment.

I know that feeling. It is why I am here in the first place.

That and the fact no one wants to marry someone arrested once and known for a public series of freak outs ending in the culmination of getting humiliated and almost disinherited.

I sigh quietly.

_We can't all be perfect, I suppose._

The dogs and Samson notice me at the same moment, when I breathe, lungs filling slowly with fresh air embezzled in the rising sun and heat.

Three pair of bright, bloodthirsty eyes pointed at me. I am glad to see two yellow pair, and I feel bitter bile rising in my throat seeing a pale blue.

"My wife graces us with her presence."

My shoulder blades draw together. The fabric of my jacket seems to be too tight. I force myself to stand tall and straight, remember Evangeline and her mother, try to imitate that posture, as if I could be anything but tired and sore.

His boots make a crushing, grinding sound when he takes a step forward. The wind turns and drives the sharp, clean smell of his cologne deeply into my migraine plagued brain.

The dogs make a low growl.

"Good morning." I choke on my tongue, holding my body up, avoiding looking at his face too long. Nothing about this morning is good.

"Your father was about to leave," he explains.

He stands so close I could simply stab my heel at his foot with as much force as I can muster. His smell and presence are making me nauseous.

My father coughs out a breath. "I brought you something."

I look over to the boxes, the traveling packaging of too many legs on little bodies, scales, and skin. A caravan of stingers and poison, pincers and eyes.

I cross my arms and slightly take a step to the side, away. "I can see that."

"They're yours." Our eyes dance around each other. No one really wants to look the others into the eyes for too long, so we pretend, made out of glass and courtesy. "And the boy is here because he is the only servant I can let go."

We have not too much to say anyway. Not with my blue keeper watching over me.

I stretch out my hand, move my fingers motioning them in, and the dogs leap into action, muscles coiling, ready to attack.

Samson takes a step out of the way when they brush past him. The runt stops, sniff and then snaps at his pale hand. A warning, little more than that. The other dog growls low and pulls back his chaps.

My husband looks unimpressed, but his fingers twitch, and by now I know the little signs of his vicious anger and cold pride scratched in the way his eyes stare bleak and his mouth forms a cruel small line. I am sure he'd like to kick them. And I'd like to kick him. So we are even.

My father draws his eyebrows together as if I have told him a joke about a fat lord and dogs again. The red boy with the boxes stops a second before he moves hastily away.

I will probably regret this later. Too many eyes have just seen this.

For now, I am just allowing myself this little gesture of defiance.

The dogs gather around me again like a wall of fur. They will never be able to block any mental attack, but their sheer presence soothes something sore in me.

They are tense a moment, still showing teeth and sneering and ready. I kneel down between them.

Their tails are the first thing betraying their viciousness when I ease my grip on them.

They are wagging up and down as soon as they have crossed over and surrounded me. Then they start to leap up, little jumps. They almost throw me to the ground.

"Easy," I mutter, one hand pushing a slobbering dog tongue and another wet nose away from my face.

They make a low, glorious sound of happiness only animals can produce. I could smile, but my skin seems to be pulled back, too tight and threatening to tear apart if I move it. Instead, I just scratch them and pat them, and they jump and wag, paws in the air, but more careful now to not throw me over.

I suck their comfort into my soul.

Eyes are watching me very closely. I can feel them like daggers burying inside me. Then the flash of the migraine returns, and I am very sure Samson has just found his way back into my head.

I cling to the dogs with my fingers for support. They have sung their farewell when no one else would, and I know now that I am away, they will not get naps, no scraps, and no one will scratch their ears. They will be hungry and angry again, and they will get no rest. My uncle uses them, he doesn't care how his tools are treated past the fact they need to fight and kill. Even a killer needs a nap, I told my father, and it holds true. Efficiency means nothing if you don't provide support to continue it.

And besides...

_How loyal is a hungry dog? What do you think, Samson?_

There is no visible reaction to my question. He could be made of stone and salt the way he just glares and watches. I scoff softly.

My father lets it all silently slip by, just as he did with the bruises.

"I knew they would be very happy to see you."

I don't answer him. Swallow silently.

"A moment with my daughter, Merandus."

Samson looks like he has just bit a lemon before he gets his composure back.

"A moment."

I stare at my hands tangled in fur and listen to his footsteps disappearing, moving back into the house. I know though he'll still lurk and wait.

My sight blurs a moment when I get up abruptly, body shooting up to fast and making my head dizzy.

The dogs press still against my legs.

"I'd give you all of them, but your uncle wouldn't let them go."

"They can't protect my head," I whisper, looking down on one ear and his sister.

He crosses the distance. One ear sneezes and runt watches, turning her ears slightly.

" _You_ can protect your head." He holds my face between his palms. His hands are touching me carefully. He knows I am never physical. His fingers are warm and rough. They aren't as big as they were when I was still a kid and he would do this often. "Listen to me now, and listen good, Daliah. I know you are angry and hurt, and you have every right for it. But you are also smart. Let us make the best out of this."

A fly, a scorpion, a widow.

Everyone has given me a position on the board.

"You know he will know everything I see and hear."

"And you will know everything he has an interest in. He can try and blind you, but we both know you will always find a way to rebuild yourself- that is what you do. The rest...is for you to figure out." He whistles once, low, and the one-eared dog takes a position at his side. "Power and Strength, Daliah Viper."

"Power and Strength," I repeat. A promise. Not for him. Just for myself.

* * *

 

In the Hall of the Sun, no one is ever truly unwatched. The guards, the sentinels, the spies, the cameras. You can name a million things and one will always breathe on your neck.

I am glad I can flee into the safety of those eyes, though, because if I had to stay in this house I would go mad very quickly.

And no one ever said I couldn't add an additional pair of eyes to it or have a talk with someone that does.

In contrast to my own eight-legged friends with their dark brusk hairy bodies, the spiders are so very small and almost like smooth little pinheads.

They creep outside of my collar in the unsuspected moments. I look for the right angle, a nice, quiet corner. Sedentary and weaving, they take their assigned positions. The more eyes, the better. I'll find them again.

The hallways are full with these little spots. Maybe I hope they creep down the halls into the rooms too. Maybe I am only a little guiding them, short blinks and seizing control over their legs and senses.

I'll have a lot to watch the next days. Luckily my schedule with Atara has not yet been declined and denied. I wonder if my father has a hand in that too. I can't imagine any of them to be happy about the possibility of a mind reader involved in this.

After meeting with the Irals on the glass terrace and the way they have rolled over our mysterious Lady reborn, I am very sure I can at least make use of some of that suspicion. Because as I said, everything that is of interest to a seasoned spy and head of a House filled with them, is valuable to me.  
And things that are valuable to me can be valuable to other people.

When I step into the training range this time, I am not here to watch Evangeline. Filled with bruises and a headache, but at least without someone sneaking inside my thoughts for now.

People tower over me. Without heels I am small. I don't like looking up to them.

I find Sonya Iral exercising speed, avoiding to get gobsmacked by swinging poles that turn way to fast. Forward, to the side, moving flowing and very silent.

"Am I interrupting something?" I ask.

Her eyes wander over. Feet away on another exercise I see the Haven girl.

Seems it is the right time for spies to train, right after lunch.

" Lady Viper, why don't you come and join in," She invites me, voice purring, and with one swift move her whole body arches back, cascading in coiling muscles and moving feet.

"Oh no, I am not as agile, I would just hit my head."

I move slow. Everything is in motion here, except me. Just blending in, for now.

I take a place next to her and start rolling my shoulders. I am dancing with myself, bending knees, moving feet. My tendons and sinews snap like rubber bands, the stretching makes them softer until I could almost feel warmed up.

At the edge of my peripheral vision, fire flies through the air, and I feel its heat from my point.

The pole slings forward her face as her eyes look over. She moves back by a whisker and it misses again. Her hair flies back in her braid in the process.

For a second I can see the suspicion.

"Congratulations on your marriage by all of us. Your new family must be thrilled to have you."

I scoff softly. My whole body bends once to the left, then over. I should do this more often. I need to be in better shape. But my head feels stuffed, still, and my body feels the lack of food and sleep these last days.

_Be a scorpion, slow your metabolism, don't starve._

"Oh, Samson was very thoughtful about welcoming me in my new home."

She gets the hint easily, brown eyes slightly narrowed.

"I believe so."

I lift my leg as high as I can, resting above the bar beside her training unit. My sight blackens a moment. Sonya shifts a bit, unnoticeable in her little dance. She doesn't particularly care for me, I guess, she knows every word she says is heard and extracted.

I put my leg down again, feel it go numb and shaking.

My pulse rushes and my veins tighten. I never was in this bad physical shape, not even in my darkest days.

My legs are still buckling, shaking, and I grip the bar for support. My fingers are tight but quivering closing around them.

My whole body shakes.I press my eyelids together a moment, breathe in deep.

When I open them, I find half of the people exercising looking over to me from their various states of units and targets.

Being not only not physically impressive but weak, in public, between fighters. That must be a new low. But I suppose that happens when you have someone in your head. At the thought of reprising the ordeal with Samson tonight, I could scream.

I can smell the sharp tingling cologne and feel the pressure on my head a moment.

Sonya Iral just continues watching me, stopping her routine not, but slowing visibly down, as expected the Haven girl watches too.

I didn't expect another pair of eyes.

Blue eyes are starting to become less and less of my favorite considering the two people that have started watching me the last days. At least I am not freezing and my heart is too occupied pumping in broken rhythm in my temple to shrivel.

I was unimpressed by the princes at every turn, simply because my main goal is not lying in the royal family but scattered in the boxes next to and right to them. Prince Maven only looks a moment before turning his dark-haired head.

At least Atara and none of the Macanthos get a taste of this and watch me.

I force my body to stand and smile. "Well, as I said, I lack agility. It was a long day, getting married. I better hurry and catch up on my schedule now."

She blinks, stops, stands still out of reach of the swinging pole. Very smooth.

"Just make sure you don't lose your many-legged pets again." A warning. Well if that isn't something. "Someone could step on them."

I smile. "Don't worry, they are very fast."


	15. Clutch

_clutch_

_-the claws or a hand in the act of grasping or seizing firmly_

_-an often cruel or unrelenting control, power, or possession_

_-a tight or critical situation_

* * *

_**T**_ he next night I lock my door before he has the chance to enter.

I barricade it with a chair and hide between cold, soft sheets, scorpions and snakes and insects are watching me from their new space along the walls.

The air in the room is humid, and small lights blink and circle before my eyes when I press them shut.

It hinders his physical presence. It doesn't stop him from entering my head, though. I can feel the edges of his mind in my head like sandpaper, rubbing irritated against it. This time, I know what is happening as soon as it starts.

Every living being in the room reacts to it. It buzzes with life and anger.

The spiders either hide, fleeing into their burrow or stand tall, raising on their legs and showing their abdomen. The scorpion is very still, stinger twitching.

The snake, my old friend, rears ist white head. It hisses when I am still not able to do more than press my lips together, showing its fangs in my stead.

I fight and struggle in his grip, but it is useless fighting a whisper in your own head. They know what you want to do, and they will just keep their control to stop you from even breathing if they want to.

_The antennas of the ants twitch. Legs lifting, bodies weirdly following a rhythm, some low sound of music from the background, the wringing of a violin, the hard bash of a trumpet, the mechanic recording lingers and accompanies the ants._

_I sit on the table, tapping finger along with the rhythm. Nails short and clean, one single ring with a large black stone wraps on my right pinky. Beside me sits a small and rigid body, silver-grey hair and wrinkled nose._

_The ants shake and dance because I make them. I see Evangeline's eyes over the table trace the small figures, I still make them move._

_"Why do you make them dance?" she asks._

_"Because I can, I guess." I move my hands and the ant's slander and move again, forming a huge pile, a fundament, and then a small pyramid. Evangeline watches my fingers move, then stares at the ants on the table performing this small trick. "I don't hurt them, don't worry."_

_She narrows her eyes slightly. "I don't worry. And I don't care if you hurt ants."_

_"That is good. They're expendable, after all."_

_The ants scurry, disband the pyramid and form a row._

_Their legs bend, and they bow deep before her, as much as an ant can bow. She watches them very closely._

_"Everything in life is expendable." I continue. "Except for your family."_

_Evangeline forces her eyes from the ants to my face. She tilts her head a bit, and her tiny hands hold something tightly, a small, silver object. "You sound like my parents now."_

_I laugh at that, throwing my braid back over my shoulder. "I do? That is good to know."_

_With a swipe of my mind, the ants twitch and stop bowing. They scatter over the table, move over and to the ground, flee. They want to go back to their caravan, a street filled with needs and tasks, order._

_"It is only a trick. And a cheap one." My voice sounds wrong. I am just a girl with a scorpion. It is high and soft and gentle. "Don't let it fool you. But also..never forget cheap tricks can work as a distraction sometimes."_

Time blurs and suddenly she isn't stiff and small anymore but reaches along and over my chin, and I know she will probably only take one or two more years to be taller than me and by that point, she will probably be just as pretty as her mother.

_Bugs and spiders, jewelry alive, attached to me._

_"An interesting choice." A compliment. I take it._

_"Thank you. Not as stunning as you, though," I say, an understatement._

_Evangeline, at least, welcomes my enthusiasm. If someone would know about the intricacies of jewelry and their usefulness, it would be her. All dressed in armoring steel that is as beautiful as it is sharp._

_Atara looses easily in training. I am almost cackling, my ribs hurting from holding the laughter back when I see Atara's face, crumbling pride and a limp. Evangeline just stands still. I move over. I congratulate her._   
_"I am glad we don't repeat the incident with the Haven girl. You hurt her pretty bad. What was her name again?"_

_For the first time in forever, Evangeline's eyes wander away and evade me. "Elane."_

_"Oh, right." I shrug it off. Something in her voice doesn't leave me alone, though._

The silence of the house is disturbed by my memories.

He digs deep, deep into me, claws right through every border and every resistance.

_"I'll miss you and your bugs," she says into the grey sky and autumn air filled with the withering smoke and smell of wet leaves._   
_We are both dressed in black. A big hood hides my face. Luckily. I don't feel good. I don't need her to see my eyes are gray and nervous._   
_I could hug her, but I just stand and stare, crossing my arms._   
_"Don't worry, I am not dead, just married. But...thank you."_

Moving back and forth, my body is rocking violently. I sweat and shiver , somewhere between freezing to death and feverish harsh hotness.

I am going mad. Weird how easy that seems to be. I thought I had overstayed my mental weakness and found my way back to reassemble myself.

He burrows into my brain until he finds what he was looking for in the first place.

The last days are blurry, fast, flashing, just as the pain they bring and double.

_I write letters with animal names to Larentia, because I know she understands exactly what I mean._

_I talk to her about all the little things that have happened in the palace after the incident of Queenstrial has disturbed balance._

_Why is Colonel Macanthos here?_ __Why is she watching me?_ _

__I am not a Poison Bride, I am a merry widow, but I may as well be prosecuted and executed, because look at their faces, they hate me with vigor, they know I am a bad, bad person, a gullible spy, and my whisper husband will brand me even more._ _

__Spiders and ants are my eyes, and they see so much, so much._ _

__I see them all. It is laughable._ _

__There is our mystery lady, hiding behind doors and instructors, and there is Evangeline, and she doesn't need to hide at all, and she isn't alone at all behind that door._ _

__A flash of uniforms and a flash of pairs of blue eyes watching me as I watch them._ _

__My father, hands soft and warm "Power and Strength, Daliah Viper."_ _

Tonight, I am not silent. I scream. My voice trembles and falls, shakes and quivers with the rest of my body.

It is like some desecration of my being, here between my glass cages and boxes filled with the only kind of home I possess. "I told you to get out of my head!"

It feels like I have been running for my life, even if I haven't moved at all.

My muscles are burning and tense, my blood is a staccato, a row of drumming sounds too heavy.

I just press my eyelids together and try to stop the too frantic way of breathing.

In the morning, I am not panicking anymore.

Instead I am so angry I can barely control myself.

I keep that penchant, that anger, that hatred. He is right. What is my hatred? A passion? An anchor?

* * *

In the morning, the sky is tainted pink, orange and red. Makes me think of that red rebels, and I wonder if they are still hiding somewhere in between the dirt or if anyone has found them yet. I'd suspect if my father has any clue, he'd share it with one person or another.

My dry eyes blink irritated, hands leaning on the windowsill next to one terrarium, and I watch it rise a moment.

Unsurprisingly dramatical and very literal that motto about the sunrise. But effective enough. After I get dressed, I am back in the nightmare of my actual life again.

A wandering, nervous search for any kind of life in this house except for me or my creatures later, I find him sitting in the sun, on a small narrow terrace behind the house, walls and glass and wood surrounding him in his little silent backyard. Having a nice breakfast, cleansing himself from my head and planning his next steps , perhaps. My skin crawls.

He is unbothered by my appearance. Just as the day before he is clean shaven and dressed, not one crinkle and not one sign of actual staying awake to extract something from my brain and torture me.  
He doesn't even look up from the paper in his long slender fingers.

"How long do you want to pretend that I am not here?" I ask.

Instead of looking at me, he lifts the cup before him and drinks, pale eyes still on the paper. "As long as you are behaving like this, widow."

My hands shake. They don't stop. My fingers rip the cup out of his hands and throw it against the wall.

It flies, shatters, one violent crushing sound of breaking, similar to my mind.

Shards of the cup are falling everywhere, some small, some big, white over stone, rolling and falling.

He looks up from whatever he is reading slow, eyes piercing. If he isn't in my head already, he may just be. Every time he looks at me my blood boils, acid filled with hatred and anger.

"You are absurd. And pathetic," he says, looking at the mess I just made with something slight. As if he expects nothing else.

My fingers are still shaking.

I move them.

One finger after another. I can control my hands.

I am in my own head. He still watches me over the table, more annoyed than seriously angry. I lean down.

_I am in my own head, right? It is me?_

I am the one touching the shards.

The ceramic cuts into my skin when I pick it up, and I hold it so tight the pain floods my system.

"Widow," He narrows his eyes slightly. He does not ask. He just demands. "Put it down."

 _I am the one in control._ The shard is sharp and big enough to do damage if you choose to stab someone with it.

"Put it down." He repeats, voice very low, a snap, vicious. He can take the last step over to this side of the table. He can try. He should try.

The shard cuts deep into my fingers but I don't let go. This is nothing against the last two nights. One leap. I need one leap, one stab, right on his throat, right where I see it move as he swallows, right where the muscles tighten now that he slowly loses patience.

With one swift move his whole dislike and anger ripples through the room, some cold, vicious brutality. He doesn't take a step up to me around the table.

He just presses the attack.

Moves back into my head.

I can't move.

I feel my limbs. But I can't control them.

I can feel how he keeps me rooted in place.

And then the cold sweat returns, salt mixing with iridescent quicksilver dropping down my palm, building on my brow.  
I am not the only one sweating, though.

Samson is pale and concentrated, brows pushing together, blue eyes bleak and blurry. So taking over my head all the time does make a big effort and it does take away some of his strength.

It isn't much of a consolation now.

We wrestle a moment, but his grip is too tight. Just as his physical control, I can't win.

My hand opens. Lets go of the shard.

I want to scream and yell and cry.

My body stands still because he wants me to stand still.

Blood drips onto the tiles and smears over my jacket.

With one shaking breath the control over my body stops. I can feel myself in control of my hands again. They curl together in fists as I take a shallow breath. Because they are under my control now again.

I could kick him, I could bite him, jump straight into his face.

I don't think about actually hitting him.

I just do it.

My hand makes shattering contact with his cheek because what do I have to lose? My blood smears over his sharp line of cheekbone, silver and pale.

I would hit him again and again and again but his hands are holding too tightly, marking my skin with new bruises accompanying the old, holding me in place just the same as his mind has a moment ago.

He looks down at me, and I almost flinch again. His anger can freeze the world and rip it apart from inside my mind.

"That," He says very, very low. "Was a mistake."

My voice could have fangs dripping with venom. It sounds harder than his attack has left me. "You think I care if you hurt me again?"

His fingers linger over my skin.

They wander over twitching, and I can barely stop myself from trying to break off when they run over my collar, fingertips gently lying over my running pulse. He could probably choke the life out of me. The idea seems tempting to him. His mouth twitches once.

I am not sure I want to fight again or run away.

"Go ahead," I hiss the words through my teeth gritted. "Leave all the bruises you want. You wreak havoc in my mind like a butcher."

The touch stops, the pain ebbs, and then he gives me that smile again, and I was right, it like cutting yourself on something. My hand throbs.

"A butcher." He touches me almost gently now, in comparison to the violence that has just occurred, and I feel my gut eating itself again. "I like that."

"Of course you do." I am glad my eyes are so dried out. It stops me from ever crying. Even if I wanted to give in, even if I could just flip that switch and relieve myself, be weak, it wouldn't work. My voice still betrays me. "Of course you like that, you proud, cruel man."

Between the table, shards and blood, he takes my bloody hand in between his palms like a precious freshly hatched bird.

 


	16. Sciamachy

_sciamachy_

_-fighting with a shadow_

_-mock or futile combat (as with an imaginary foe)_

* * *

_**T**_ he sun hides between two grey and white clouds. It results in stale, warm air that tickles your skin while the light is so strangely grey it makes my migraine burn in my head and rush behind my temple. My whole body is a mess, from the new bruises to the blood. My clothes are ruined too. I force myself to stand still. Lucky I am not one of the airy summer dress girls. I am not sure I could pull off all the skin like the girls do while Samson has marked me, and the blood would have ruined anything that isn't as dark as the black I wear.

My fingers have barely stopped bleeding, but they throb and hurt.

I look at them, stare at the broken and ripped tissue. The cuts are deep, and they aren't exactly subtle, rigid edges have left gashes over them and one long cut on my palm.

Whenever my first husband came home, I'd look for a new scar.  
I'd make crude comments about how he apparently could turn his skin to stone but never acted accordingly. Sometimes he didn't have any visible injuries. But if I had been kinder, as Samson has easily put it, I would have seen no wound deeper than the hole war leaves in someone exposed for too long to it.

I still can't cry.

This is a mess. Shards and blood still echo the incident I can't believe I somehow survived. It stands in for this whole marriage, the yelling, screaming, the attempt to murder each other. We bite for dominance like the dogs, like my family, like noble houses with old blood do.

It's the red boy from the Viper residence, the one my father has brought with my animals that comes over to clean up. The one I notice thoroughly these last days.

He stares at the mesmerizing quicksilver that is staining everything. As if he has never even known we can bleed.

He should not see me like this. No one should see me weak. I try to hide my hand at my stomach, curling it together as if I don't feel anything.

The difference between our blood is visible even if just I bleed it. We will never be the same. Everything we are told, everything we do is supposed to make us feel superior.

I don't feel superior as of now.

He is barely fourteen. Give it a few more years and he'll be conscripted if he doesn't do a good job here on the estates or in any kind of task.

The boy just presses his arms to his sides and stands straight as if he is on rapport when I don't stop looking at him.

"Speak openly." I decide. "No punishment. And look at me because you mutter and I will not ask you to repeat yourself."

He's clearly uncomfortable.

His brown eyes are like miserable puddles. "Your hand, Lady Viper."

I still hide the cuts and scoff softly. "I am aware of my hand, boy."

His voice has some trouble not stuttering. "Does it hurt a lot?"

 _Why would he care if I am hurt? What does he hope to gain?_  
I knit my eyebrows together. He looks at the blood on my jacket.

"I don't feel anything," I lie." And you should stop asking questions that don't do anything. Just clean the mess and then make sure my animals are fine."

He lowers his eyes again and nods.

At first, the shards will get swept away, and then the blood is washed off.  
It disappears, and no one will ever know what happened as long as we can suppress the existence of this.  
All that is left is conflicted words and wounds inflicted. Memories on another staple of wrongs.

I drag myself inside, following the invisible trail of cold and sharp cologne up the stairs.

It's not the first time I am left alone with bruises and blood on me. Be it my own or someone else. I try to care methodically for myself, covering it up, changing. I'll need to see a healer somehow later. For now, my hurt fingers disappear under a dark glove, wrapped and bound as best as a makeshift bandage and my need to appear normal will do.

I even get to the task of eating. My stomach rebels with each stab of the fork, but I swallow until I know I am at least not going to faint again from declining food. There is still the matter of the sleeplessness. I cannot help that. I barely have an hour and then I will creep through the palace again, behind Atara, and maybe, if I am lucky, alone, just my eyes and my bugs and spiders.

I take my time before I have to face him again.

As soon as I am halfway through the door, I feel it.

One hot iron brandishing memories and simply taking without asking for permission. He is sharpening his mental knife again and makes it ready to stab deep.

My head seems to explode. The white snake around my throat moves slightly, slow head and long flicker or tongue.

There is no use un yelling at him to get out. I know that after everything that has happened today.

I can't escape this house or him. My anger hasn't cooled off a bit and never will.

The snake at my throat hisses at the footsteps behind me.

"I have a schedule and I am sure you have important things to do yourself," I answer and stick my jaw out. "Say what you have to say."

I don't attempt to hit him again. Not now. He keeps distance anyway.

He stands on the staircase like a statue, looking down on me.

My bones shiver in his presence.

"Write your letters, but don't think I won't know what you write," He says. Demands. Threatens. Instructions will follow, clearly. "And do continue your little waiting game in the palace, widow. But don't kill your cousin or Colonel Macanthos, while you are at it. And better stay away from the Irals."

I huff out an almost mocking breath, eyes finding the ceiling and a single silk string from a spider's web next to the fan on it, fluttering in the wind.

"They don't trust me anyway, whisper. Not that you care. All you want is to squeeze information out of my head and gain some favours." I think about the fight in the arena, the blood and the sheer lack of remorse but the need for a victory. "And looking either terrifying or very good while doing it."

After pulling my insides out with his eyes only, he just raises one eyebrow slightly. "If it weren't obvious with all your bugs, I could think you are the one reading my mind."

He knows very well animosi cannot simply take over more complex organisms. The dogs, for example, are molded under the grip of my family, and that is why it is so easy. Bugs and spiders may have incredible skills and beautiful small tricks, but they are simple. No animosi ever has been able to take a human over. I stare at him. "Who would literally want to be in your _head_ , Samson? I just know a predator when I see it. You weren't subtle before our marriage and you aren't now."

A butcher, a fighter, a killer. Most certainly not subtle. Not as subtle as he wants to be.

I leave his print on my mind only ever so slow, and it echoes and wallows still in pain around my brain even when he is gone and I am fleeing into the eyes of the palace.

* * *

I am so tired.

I can't remember being tired in a way like this. That feverish heat and ice cold follow me through the morning.

My keeper and jailer may be around somewhere, or someone else is inside me. My paranoia paints vivid horror images after the last nights. But I push through it, away from it.

_Get out of my head Get out of my head Get out of my head._

My pulse flutters.

I choke on every breath. My sight blurs. I am barely able to concentrate on anything.

At first, I try to sense my spiderlings and ants through walls and in corners. On between stone and glass accommodating to their newfound home, I skitter inside them, only for glimpses.

It isn't exactly a sight. It is their sense, their understanding of their environment. They are different from humans in what they feel vibrating through the air and they don't have the memory like that whisper is draining out of me.

It is more instincts and reading from me. Now, if I would let a bird fly, especially a trained one...say a hawk. That would be a completely different matter. Bird eyes are good eyes as dog's noses are good for following the trails.

I don't have too much time and attention for them today, though.

Atara has to follow her own set of schedule. I accompany her the whole morning. She is as biting as always, smirking, poking, and again, Samson is right when he knows I could easily throw her down a staircase and make it look like an accident.

_Everyone knows I bring bad luck, after all._

"You're slower than a slug today," she notes, pushing a strand of hair out of her face.

She stops and waits for me, a green silken glimmer, clearly disparaged and exhausted I am still on her heels even though I am no longer a widow.

_Only technically speaking. With a man like Samson, what does it make for a difference? Maybe we are simply stuck in our roles, and I will be that widow until I die._

I take a shallow breath, cradle the snake in my gloved and hurt hand.

"Why don't you go ahead to take your seat at Luncheon?" At the thought of being perched in with a row of women that either hate me or girls that are meaningless I could lose my appetite if I still had one."You're granted a good one, after all. Maybe talk a bit with someone else than Heron, finally. Make friends with Lady Titanos, she doesn't know anyone, poor thing."

"Only so you can put your very prominent nose in there too? I don't think so. And not with any of them ever." Atara slides away with graceful steps, stalking off to join another gathering, another formality. "Don't take too long, cousin."

I still cradle the soft skin careful. It is alive, I feel it even through my gloves.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

I breathe. Try to find my concentration. Every word can be important. It helps to distinguish. And it helps in learning who you should follow with that spider eyes.  
The snake stirs until I let it curl around in a knot around me.

I leave one enemy to find a new one in the hallways leading to rooms big enough to hold all of our colored banners.

Blue and Gray. Stonefists and stone faces, medals and uniforms.

Every time I see her, something in me withers only to bloom in all dark colors of hatred. And again, he is right when he knows she is the second person I want to kill.

"It seems we are both late," I greet her. Something in her face darkens as soon as she hears my hoarse voice, and then something behind her eyes does too. "A long discussion about blood and death, Colonel? About appropriate losses?"

The resemblance of the dead man standing between us, something we tug on and glare over, is uncanny. I have wasted the best years of my life with her family.

"Is it Lakelanders or something about the terroristic activities of rebels this time?" I continue. My heels click unharmonic.

Her teeth seem to grind behind her closed mouth a moment. Her words are filled with the same vile taste that rises in my throat.

She's tense. She could slam me into the ground and break my nose again. "You should have rotted in that cell, Daliah."

Just as the snake has hissed this morning it does now, yelling my anger out into the world with fangs. "And who'd remind you war makes widows then?"

Despite the lost fights, all I want to do is get into another round. But you can't simply pick a fight in this hallways. You need to be careful.

"Enjoy your stay, Colonel." That is all I say before I decide to take my leave. I don't get too far before I stop again. Atara is right, I am a slug today.

Bright flashes of light dance before my eyes, accompanied by something else, something deep-rooted, dark, heavy.

I fight myself, want to slap some sense and awareness into me. If you are alone, you cannot ever pause and ponder. Especially not in public.

At first, it is just a tingling sensation masked behind my headache.

Someone lurks through the murky water of my mind again.

I can feel it.

The first thing I notice is the way all the little life and all the little creatures around me get skitterish. My snake is no difference. Not outright hiding, waiting.

Sharp lines, the bright eyes, the pale skin. Blue and white, flowing skirt, she burns into my eyes and into my head.

And as soon as I see her face, that asserting of the situation, I suddenly know that Samson in my head is bad, but if my paranoia is true and she has any interest I can't satisfy, I will be either dead or very much lost soon.

It isn't about the fact she could probably get me removed by every single one of her guards and sentinels surrounding her like some cloud of dangerous perfume.

I can't stop the panic, the fear, or the anger.

_Get out of my head Get out of my head Get out of my head._

I want to claw at it, I want to scratch eyes out, I want to hurt them all, hurt them bad.

I bow slightly. Receive no recognition.

If it wasn't for that feeling creeping up my spine, I could simply try and move on.

But after those last two nights, there is no moving on and chalking it up as me simply being crazy and delusional. Not just, at least.

My hand pulses under my glove. Shakes.

I am losing my mind. I am losing my mind and I can't stop it.

My whole body is a shaking mess, limbs out of my control. I feel like I could spasm and loose myself any second again.

The air is cold beneath the rushing air filter, it swipes over the sweat. It caresses my clammy hands and sweaty palms, curled into fists not to rip at myself.

_GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUT OF MY HEAD_

The world is dizzy, turning around me. It blurs and warps before my eyes. For the first time in forever, hot, wet, salty water clouds my vision.

I stagger a step over, through doors leading outside, under the eyes of guards, but unbothered for now. Flies sing and dance around in the air, black outlines forming a cloud.

My lungs seem to burst with every breath. Too warm air rustles over leaves next to me. And then I hear the steps, silent, slow, but steady, and I want to run even farther. Instead, I break, and I hate myself with spite for breaking together. I shouldn't buckle under the pressure anymore. I should be steel plates and spikes like Evangeline. A Viper like her mother.

The white snake loses itself on my collar and creeps lazily a few steps away.

I should have lost my remorse and regret the moment Samson couldn't stop to find it fascinating.

Soles of my boots scraping, heavy fabric of my clothes stained with dirt, I don't move anymore, on my knees, hiding underneath the windows, leaning against a wall.

My defenses are so worn out I cannot stop myself. The feet come closer still.

I just sit here, in the dust of boots, and I can't move except for the low desperate sobs that escape my throat now.

"Lady Viper?" It isn't Samson's voice, nor any other I would have expected. A slender frame punctures the bright light baiting clouds and reflecting on glass, bearing some resemblance to my husband if only the hair was the same ash bright color. It's dark though, and the face is much younger. I only stare.

I can't answer, and that is breaking the etiquette for addressing royalty. I can't speak or breathe at all.

"Lady Viper?" Maven Calore moves slowly like the Red Boy did when he came closer to my dog. "Can you hear me?"

I should say something. Anything really. I just stare at him, blinking hard against eh blurry water in my eyes, pressing them to shut to stop- stop anything, really. I half expect him to simply turn away.

He has no reason to stay and watch me be some miserable small creature.

I am weak right now.

Weakness is to be ignored or purged.

His blue eyes study me a moment.

"Samson doesn't know his boundaries sometimes, does he?" The prince asks. "Not subtle at all."

I want to laugh but all I do is let out one noise, sounding like a hectic animal trapped between sharp teeth.

"You need to breath." He says that with certainty. Not friendly, but polite, almost. My heart pounds in my chest, screaming, and I almost don't hear what he says next, very low. "It will be over soon."


	17. Hover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry it took a while, I am reworking some parts of the already existing story and write ahead a little :)

_hover_

_-to hang fluttering in the air or on the wing_

_-to be in a state of uncertainty, irresolution, or suspense_

* * *

**_T_** he sun wanders through the midday. I stare at it, that glowing light, watch it with the same care I would watch a fire.

The sun is my enemy. It always was. Few are more persistent in their attempts to burn me.  
But the sun isn't my biggest problem. As unreachable and immortal as it is, others have almost the same status but wander among me.

My feet are heavy. It is as if the ground has turned from smooth stone to an uneven ground littered with glass.

Through the windows, the spiral garden peeks into my view. The platforms, and boxes and cushioned seats that held our meeting only days ago.

Atara waits for me at the steps leading down.

She looks at my puffed eyes, the way I hold onto my white snake like a baby, soft hands and careful.  
She wrinkles her nose, lifts her head. Her voice falters, ponders.

"You missed something."

I hug the snake, and its warm softness seems to ground me enough to focus on her. "Why? Did you decide to dance on a table? Or did you insult someone?"

"No?" She huffs out a breath. "Don't be ridiculous. And I never really insult anyone that doesn't deserve it. I simply asked Lady Titanos a question. A courtesy about the superiority of her new living conditions."

I can imagine how that went. Superiority talk wrapped in small talk never ceases to miss marks around us ladies forced to gather together.

"You were a darling," I mock. "I am sure. She was probably very happy you addressed it."

We have walked these halls so often in the last days. Two small black and green forms, two wronged and cheated people.

"As if you wouldn't have done it." She lowers her voice, eyes. "There was some...discussion afterwards."

"Oh," The snake licks the air, tongue flicking. We both try to suck as much information is as we can with that. Sensing the way the snake perceives the world of prey, food, danger soothes me.  
It won't protect me from the real danger, not ever. The real danger cannot be senses through chemical components. It lies in silver blood, and it lies in something that will hurt my head again.  
Moving slowly in a twisting motion, the serpent forms a collar around my throat again.

"Tell me all about it."

"Remember you lectured Heron and me? About throwing stones after she said something about more...incidents?" She clears her throat. A servant scurries past us. She ignores it, the figure knows how to step around and not bother any of us.

"Colonel Macanthos asked some questions about a stolen jet and an attack on a base."

Throwing stones, ha. "I guess she stood her ground to get an answer."

"No. The Queen cut her off."

I still remember my sweat and tears at the recent panic attack too vividly. At the pure mentioning my heart races again. "The next step in your schedule should be training again, should it not?"

"Do you challenge me for a little rematch, cousin?" She smirks.

"I have a disadvantage at that," I wiggle my gloved hand. "And I yielded the night before the Queenstrial, remember?"

I would expect her to ask a rude question about my marriage. All she does is look at my hand. Her eyes remind me of the night I left the Viper residence, and she just stood there, arms crossed. "Don't worry. I wouldn't want to kick your bony arse again anyway."

I scoff softly. "So kind, Lady Atara."

She waves it off with a harsh move of her flat palm. "How bad is it?"

"I cut myself. And I have some bruises." The truth. I take a breath. Ash and lies come next, stuffing my throat and stifling my words. "It was an accident."

She narrows her green eyes almost unnoticeable. "Your husband should take better care, especially when he can't take his hands off you."

_He cares so, so much._

I don't say it. I simply readjust my glove, pulling at it to make sure the bandage doesn't slip.

"How is family doing?"

She shrugs. "Your father tries. He doesn't get many, lost resources. And my father isn't too pleased with _anything_. Loren is just himself."

She doesn't say a word about anyone else. Not even Calpurnia. Interesting but unsurprising.  
We move around another corridor. She lowers her head as well as her tone. "Do you want someone to look at this accident?"

I only hum once, low. I expected her to simply attack me. "Thank you, Atara."

"You are everywhere I go." The thought still rattles her, I feel it in the sting that shivers in her voice, even if she tries to hide it, turning away. "I don't want to look even worse if you're weak and damaged. Hurry, slug, we can't be late again."

* * *

The sound of my heels rings loud over the stairs. The stairs in this house are steep. Everything is only sparely lighted. I walk careful, soft. It is no use.

I imagined someone, anyone, even just one narrow handed boy or a figure looming over me in blue. No one is to be seen.

My only reaction is to make it to my room.

I let the snake back into its enclosure. It moves fast. I let the lid open, rush back to the door and turn the lock. Not helps too much, as I have learned.

The time turns slow.

After a few of these instances of a quick up and down have happened, I decide it is enough.

There is that room down the hallway. It is always locked, except when I know Samson has burrowed his pale sharp bones on his seat there.

A blow of air through the windows rustles the curtains. And gliding through the crack into that room, the moth feels the world along its wings, air tugging. The antennas of the moth twitch. A moth is different from a spider or a scorpion. I can barely make out enough clues to access the situation at first. Waves of light I hadn't considered existing before are visibly around me now.

The moth flutters gently. There is a figure in the chair. When it doesn't move, the moth lands on his arm, perches, its wings flatten. Every hair on the moth tickles with information, and I try to form the image I need. He lies very still. Maybe sleeping, definitely resting.

The moth shivers a bit closer. He barely shakes while he breathes. A deep heavy rhythm.

Even killers need a nap, I said to my father.

That almost makes him vulnerable. I could let go of the moth and try to sneak in something more deadly. Or harmful, at least.

He moves before I can make a final decision. I need to pull the moths legs, scramble, wings vibrating, readying itself warming up to fly away.

He plugged a moth out of my hair once. Now his hands are much slower, and he barely touches it, only holds it loosely.

Like he held my bloody hand.

The next thing I know, something tingles through my head, jumping, and feels like a sound in a hollow cave. It doesn't really exist.

_Miss our nightly engagement already, widow?_

It feels like a hand touching my spine.

With force, I rip the cord I hold to the moth and curl together on the bed. Everything is dizzy.

He doesn't do it again. Head falling, bones yelling, sleep is a hard enemy and sweet talking seducer.

I sit on the bed since I sent the moth out. My dizzy head decides otherwise. Eyes fluttering shut, I can't fight the haze, barely snap out of it.I fall asleep.

For the first time in this house, I truly, freely sleep, and my dreams are strange...but I am always alone.

The morning greets me almost gently.

I step to the window and watch the sunrise, not yet reborn but lingering nighttime. . A bird sits below my windowsill, tiny brown body. It makes me think about Ataras unexpected help.

My head is almost clear.

A sound fills the air in a tiny nervous explosion. It's the sound of feet only waiting for someone stupid enough to step out and get into the trap.

He'll probably make me open the door for him rather than he would knock. No wonder he waits.

I let him wait while I dress and pull my hair together tightly into a knot.

His absence in my head raises the suspicion.

Samson hates waiting for the fact that I made him wait so much it almost satisfying. His eyes are small.

"Good morning," I cross my arms in front of my body. Bare arms, no more bruises, no more cuts.

"I hope you had a pleasant night." He brushes beside me like a hot needle in skin. My poison green skirt ushers over the floorboards next to his dark boots. Seeing his face in the light it is hard to imagine he really needs sleep. He never seems to tire, except for the little sweat after taking me over.

His smell lingers and stings me again. I stick out my chin, clench my jaw. "Fighting with me must really exhaust you."

"I was mostly bored watching and slightly interested at best by your tragedy," he states that, and I hate I have to look up at him, want to really just put my thumbs in his blue marbles of eyes and squeeze to take them out. "You got to sleep tonight so you can focus on an important task the next. You'll most probably be informed today."

"And you know this because you read someone's mind," I conclude.

He makes a low sound that notes how absurd and pathetic I am, lips curling up a moment. "I know that because your father told me, out of free will. He is rather proud to have you back for it."

_Have me back?_

I can't finish that thought before Samson throws another gush of words at my breezing head.

Light gets caught in a ray in his bright hair. Something in his face turns, eyebrows knitting. "And you also got to sleep because I was told my methods were a little bit too rough for your fragile, precious mind."

Oh, it isn't because he thinks I am pathetic that he looks so sour. A small, distorted chuckle leaves my mouth.

I slightly pull the layers of my skirt up when we reach the end of the bright hall.

"Someone put you in your place. And you hate that. But you buckle."

"I assumed no one would notice. You earned a small reprieve," A statement, and I see the visceral cold, and something else cackling as he presses his lips together. "Enjoy it."


	18. Pursuit

_pursuit_

_-to find or employ measures to obtain or accomplish_

_-to in order to overtake, capture, kill, or defeat_

_-to continue to afflict_

* * *

The bell shrieks. Feet hurry over the ground to get the front door.

My father grants me a formal visit.

It is just like I was told. Sometimes, I suppose, I can trust Samson's words to a minimal degree.

"Lady Viper," He greets me. He has a small suitcase with him, silver and black. I glare at it with interest barely concealed. "You look good today."

_Oh wonder what some sleep can do._

I take my time moving down to him down the steep stairs.

He waits patiently.

Then we both say the obvious. To complete this concrete circle of nonsense and small talk.

"You missed my husband. He is already gone."

"I am here for you."

My head motions sideways.

He gets the hint easily and follows me outside, to the back. The small backyard is shielded. Without Samson mocking me on a table, and with all the shards and blood gone, no one can imagine what has happened here.

My father puts the suitcase on the table. "I will need your assistance tonight."

I nod. He leans forward.

"You keep this from Larentia, from anyone." His voice is low. "This is not official. Or very important. By any means."

I narrow my eyes slightly. "You told Samson."

His breath hits one side of my face because he is so close. "I told Samson because he would have pried it out of you anyway. And I told him so he would back off. Always tries to butt his head in things above his status, arguing. And making very creative threats."

I don't feel sorry for my father. He made a deal, now he has to live with the consequences. We all do.

"The lack of open fights makes him prickly," I sound quiet, almost, a voice softly carried away in the summer breeze. "And I wear him down too."

I can see the way it worries and amuses him, all bushy eyebrows half raised and mouth a conflicted wave. "You are married less than a week and you wore him down. You deserve a reward."

He only stretches his hands out, openening his small bundle and metal on the table. And something dark and heavy lies in it.

"Oh." I stare at it. The dark metal has the deadly sheen of being produced with the sole purpose of killing and ripping apart. "I have not had the opportunity to refresh my aim."

No one would ever let me close a shooting range. They'd be mad to give me permission after the last year.

My father moves his hand a bit closer to me. Holding the dark leather and the gun in it.

It's a peace offer. I should accept it. At least act like it.

I hold the gun in my shaking fingers, thumb brushing over cold metal, worshipping and appreciating. Then I take a breath and my hands remember the drill. They close around, check the way it weights, the way it feels, not yet a finger on a trigger. Just an inspection of the barrel, the structure.

What I could do with this gun. Shooting Samson in the face and blow brains out able to control me does have a certain brutal appeal. But we both know I can't and won't- and he means something else.

"So. Where do we go tonight?"

"I give you a gun for another reason than tonight. Patience, Daliah, patience."

"I am the epitome of patience." I hold my chin up high.

My father smiles, lips a miserable tugged up curve. "Sometimes you remind me too much of your mother."

I assume that as a compliment and insult at the same time.

"How's she doing?" A matter of courtesy. My mother is no topic we ever pick willingly. "She didn't even congratulate me to my return or my marriage."

His shoulders are slumped and his eyes are evading me, lost somewhere. My father looks ten to twenty years older depending on the topic that wears him down.

His face is grey, sickly, then it pales.

"She sends some interesting bits about the capital now and then, but barely anything personal. Don't worry too much about her absence."

I glare at the gun and the holster in my hand.  
"Disappointing her both, are we?"

He just shakes his greying head.

* * *

The reprieve is very literal. It means I am released from any duty.

I almost miss following Atara around.

Say whatever you want about the youngest Lady Viper.

Say her hatred is still visible in the wrinkled bridge of her pale nose. In her curseful smirk. Her burning eyes.

She does have some interesting observations to share or people to meet. And she did help me to get my physical wounds fixed. I still don't fully understand why she would do that. She was the one relentlessly mocking me.

The reprieve also means I can roam, go wherever I want to, see whoever I want.

A part of me wants to travel down the road and creep directly to Larentia. But she would not approve of that.

The other part wants to creep up to Evangeline and her brother. Perhaps that is not the worst idea. But Evangeline is barely available for a short talk. She is somewhere in the palace. And her schedule, as I presume, is even worse than mine or Atara's could ever be.

I catch glimpses of her through my spiderlings.

They don't tell me too much.

They are simply for public appearance.

Smiling and spouting nonsense or threatening and hissing under her breath.

Shooting spikes at targets.

Building some kind of pack through viciousness and quiet feet, accompanied by Ara Irals granddaughter and the Haven girl- I pretend to think about it. Elane, her name is Elane, and I know it, I have known her name since the day she got brutally hurt in a dance of relentless training and drill. Years made me only older and lose things when they make girls prettier blooming. And what does that matter anymore?

In the afternoon I sit between the glass cages. My pen scratches over the paper, fast and frantic.

_Dear cousin..._

It continues the same. It only speaks about things I have seen with my eyes or something elses. I talk about a hawk, and a fox again.

I talk about seeing them together, and I talk about the way my Shrike surprised me by fluttering over to my hand.

I talk about the way that purple butterfly continues to evade me, how I want to catch it.

 _Even though it does seem like Lady Iral has forgotten she told me about it,_ I write. _Maybe she thinks it won't fit me after all._

I leave some things out of my report.

I do not write about a prince finding me under a window. I keep that for myself. I cannot appear weak again. If I lose myself and tell her, she will turn away. Forever this time. No old stories can rekindle us then.

My foot taps over the ground. Everything is too loud and too quiet at the same time.

I wonder if Maven Calore was the one telling Samson to stay off my brain. He ought to know a thing or two about whispers and their ways, with his mother. Maybe it was pity after seeing me almost faint in the practice range. Maybe he wants something. Or maybe it was just coincidence, but I don't believe in that.

Crossing my legs, I sit on the chair very silent. The only regular movement is my heavy boot, today without any heels again, bumping up and down through the air.

I have no doubt I will never send it without Samson seeing it, or another hand unfolding it. Intelligence could take care and open it. A servant could forward it to someone. Anything is possible, really. But as noted, the format of the letters doesn't hold anything incriminating me again.

Small consolation but has to be enough.

Calpurnia is the one waiting for me at dawn in our courtyard. The dogs are shuffling around her. As soon as they notice me, see me, smell me, noses in the air, they jump over. Three big creatures paying reverence and comfort to me again. I lean over them a moment, hands patting fur. The holster presses onto my chest, and I feel the gun visibly when I move my arm.

"Look at you," Her eyes take me in, dark menace and promise. Her moves, as well as her voice, are all low and languid, floating with venom. "All pride and fight. Marriage doing good?"

I look back at the house. Only in one window, a light burns. At the end of the corridor, curtains hiding most of the room. There was an open crack, enough for a moth to slip through. I lock it in my gaze a second. Half expect him to appear when I think his name.

I feel the gun again. I could whip the pistol over her head before she can notice. But I will not. She is but one more daring voice accusing me, attacking me. And a vulture at that, just as the animal that boils in high pitched sounds over our head out in the night. An owl? A bat? Both suits her fine.

My boots crunch through dirt and stone.

"It does something to me," I mutter. "That much is sure."

I thought we would simply walk someplace. Instead, she leads me to a vehicle. The dogs block most of the space, a curled knot that makes the driver uncomfortable.  
I am forced to press beside her as we start to emerge, flee in the rising motor and turning wheels.  
The panting of three fur-clad, four-legged creatures is the only constant sound between that.

"We all thought your children would be Macanthos." She states. "Maybe this time around you'll be graced."

My mouth presses together.

_Look who is talking. Spits one spawn into this world and never stops telling her female relatives to do their duty, are you, Calpurnia?_

She waits for me to answer, very still and cautious. I take my time so I don't say anything wrong. We shake back and forth.

I'll never touch Samson with a ten feet polearm and don't intend to find out anything about the way it would probably escalate to be in each other's physical space.

I don't need to tell her that.

"Maybe the child would be a Viper, against all odds, inheriting my blood," I note, channel all my discipline to not simply insult her. Atara would smirk. "It happened to you, didn't it?"

She is not very impressed. Her eyes are caught in the constant anguish of being small and narrow staring at me.

"Chances are very slim for a repetition. You know how the whole inheritance works. No," Her hand touches my shoulder. "You children will be Merandus, and they will be whispers. A rare and dangerous litter."

I can feel the way my heart contracts tightly. My throat constricts, dry, and I swallow hard. Then I rip myself free from her touch.

At my feet, the dogs make low, disgruntled sounds in the back of their bodies. I look down at them. Litter she says. Cause that is all that is.

Talking about children as if we talk about dogs. I guess the difference between a baby and a puppy is smaller than people would say. Both need to learn borders and how to properly take care of body functions, at least. That is all my wisdom when it comes to raising children.

"Remind me," I force my voice to not just hiss at her. "Why are we talking about my potential offspring again, Calpurnia?"

"Hm," She narrows her eyes. "You aren't exactly a girl anymore. Just get it over with, is all my advice. It could help your marriage and position."

_Get it over with._

I can't stop the air that pushes out of my body and makes me chortle. I tried to get it over with my first husband. And he never bothered me to the extent my late one does.

Calpurnia is not done yet.

"Look at me. My child is a sentinel, and what about Larentia? She provided two functional and very successful children and it suits her well as long as things are according to schedule and plans."

"I guess so."

My legs brush hers in the too small space.

Luckily it is not such a long way. The road gets a dirty mess, loses most its coherent pavement along the last minutes. We reach along the river once, but not for too long until we lose ourselves on the dust and dirt getting whirled up again.

Right up is that wretched arena I watched Samson make a man kill himself. Left is one red village. Mud and wood and dirt and hunger, I presume.

For a strange second, I think about that Red Boy with the narrow hands and wonder if he's from around here. It is an outlandish thought for me to wonder about someone like him.

I push a stubborn strand of dark hair back behind my ear, breathe in the moldy smile of a too sweet perfume radiating from Calpurnia. It mixes with the strong smell of the dogs.

My husband wears all my defenses down, and my kin doesn't make it any better.

There is a small hill uprising to a treeline. We cross it. I let the dogs run. They leap over, paws in wet earth.

Our legs make way through stalking, as soundless as the heavy assault of our boots can be.

"You'll lose tonight." The old snake whispers before she doubles her steps."If you know what is good for you."

Calpurnia is gone before I can answer.

* * *

Another family reunion awaits me. All of my favorite cousins and extended family have gathered around the small light of a flickering white lamp. It illuminates the close trees and our black, slithering bodies.

When I left the residence on my wedding day, Loren was as smug as one can be. If he had waved at me leaving, it would not have been more obvious he was content seeing me leave.

Loren is not smug right now. He and my father are arguing about something. When he sees me, white anger pulls his face into a grimace. Atara just stands next to him, hair pulled tightly back from her eyes, face hard and bleak.

"What is she doing here?"

My father studies me in the dark, hidden behind lurking dogs. The black bleeds him out of color through the darkness of the night as we step over.

"She'll teach you a thing or two about control tonight, Loren."

He looks me up and down. I don't like the way my cousin stares at my naked throat and down to my pants and boots. At least he doesn't recognize I wear a weapon hidden under my jacket. "No bugs?"

I let out a puff of air. "I don't need to see through bugs to exercise control. The dogs aren't simply for you to snap at servant girls."

To my surprise, I can hear Atara make a low amused sound.

"We are doing this in honor of all the traditions. Rules are simple." My uncle's voice booms through the darkness. "Some of you have already been a part of this little...training exercise. One Viper, one dog, one hunt."

Atara tilts her head slightly. Loren just continues to glare over at me, then Calpurnia and his own father.

I cross my arms, feel the holster and the gun and know I won't need it most likely tonight.

I should have known they'd play the chasing game this summer again. Especially if it is about grooming Loren and keeping Atara sharp.

"No kill, but incapacitating contrahents is viable. First one to find the price is the winner." My uncle takes a long quivering breath. A vein on his temple seems to burst in the small light. The moon hides halfway behind clouds and makes the night grey. "Loren takes his pick. Then Atara. Daliah takes the remaining dog."

 _How fair_. My father doesn't say a word when I glare over.

I bow low.

Loren studies the dogs to my knees. His eyes glitter over the runt fast, then scrape over her one eared brother until they find the biggest dog with the broken tail and battle scars. He isn't limping anymore, as far as I know. Ready to run again.

His eyes leash the dog and he trots over, broken tail low swinging over the ground.

Atara takes One Ear.

That leaves the runt for me. I am more than fine with that fit.

_What did I tell Heron and Atara about small but dangerous things?_

And I mean it.

Tonight, I hunt.

Tonight, I chase.

Tonight, I will make everyone see there is still something left of the promise I held for my family. Still, something that makes me better than Loren. Something that makes me dangerous enough for Calpurnia to better take care.

Give up? I don't think so.

The dogs noses move rapidly taking in the hint of a scent from some small cloth my father holds.

I roll my shoulderblades.

Atara has the practiced stance of a fighter, waiting to attack and run.

Loren bites his lip.

The falling hand of my uncle is the signal.

Our bodies tense. The dogs leap. One pack ready to hunt just like their wolf cousins. Nothing is domesticated about them in this second.

They run.

They chase.

They follow the scent.

And so do we.

I did this all before.

My control around the runt tightens. Sniffing nose.

I follow her, boots sinking into the dry ground caked with mud and thorny, bleak branches.

My body relies on their instincts now, and I feel it tighten and loose along with my fingertips and my mind as I take reign over the dagger-teeth and long legs. We fly through the undertow in a violent twist of brute energy.

The world is alive in the darkness around me. My eyes have already adjusted to the grey, and it fits me right . Darkness is the home of many of my creatures, coming out in darkness or twilight.

I blink, let the runt do her job. Something rustles behind me.

A sound in the trees. Too big for a bird. It makes me turn. The next I know, Atara descends on me with a fist curled up to hit me.

Not this time, though. I duck under her swinging arm. She kicked me in the stomach. I return the favor with a low force of my own, kicking her as hard and fast as I can in the shin.

_Not a slug tonight._

The dogs coil over one another. One ear might be bigger, but he always submits himself to his sister. The runt snaps at his throat, and Atara needs to pull on him to make him fight back. Their loud and dangerous sounds vibrate through us.

"You need to let one of us win anyway," she says when the dogs roll over the wet ground, leftovers of the first rain this season.

Instead of doing her the favor, I duck under her next attacks again.

"Not tonight, my birdgirl."

The runt rears and jumps at her brother, and I jump at Atara in the same moment, when her attention is divided the split of a second.

We brush through the soft, wet grass below, snap twigs, make too much noise.

This time, I am the one on top, legs pressing on her sides. I lift my hand.

I could end it right here and then. I could knock her out square or worse.

Instead, she flinches and growls. And I let go of her body, legs moving up.

On small whistle and touch of my compelling power later, I have two dogs instead of one.

"Don't cross me tonight." It is payback for my hand. "Don't try."

We fly through the night below branches. The dogs have found a weak trail and they lead me. I trust their abilties.

The price is near, somewhere. I feel it, because they get very excited over it. But I also feel something else. It trickles in the back of my head. I stand still in the darkness. Close my eyes. Hear the wind through the leaves, feets in the distance. The sounds of the hard breathing bodies gathered around me, paws on the ground.

Something is not right.

I let the dogs turn attention- if only to deflect my possible bad impression.

The runt growls.

One ear puts the destroyed tissue flat on his head.

Something glimmers through the darkness. A reflection? A light?

None of my cousins would be foolish enough. Not even Loren.

I slowly let my hand wander to the hidden gun. Crouch down careful.

Wait.

The sound of feet again. This time, the dogs don't simply growl. Their whole bodies shake and their fur starts to stand up, tails clipped tense to their bodies.

I hope to see the reflection again. Maybe a trespasser. Maybe something else.

_Nothing ever happens down here? Oh, how wrong I am proven over and over._

I crouch another step. Slow. My muscles burn in the attempt to stay smooth and silent.

Half hidden behind a brush, my fingers clench around the gun.

_Out here, in the woods, no one hears the shots. Even if you aren't that practiced, and even if it is dark. Maybe you get more prey than just that small price for the game.  
_

The dogs have stopped growling. Now, just like me, they are prowling.

Nothing feels like blood that pumps gloriously through my veins, nothing comes close to the way the world blurs and sharpens around me.

Now, I can almost believe it. That I am not only silver. But superior.

Born to rule through blood and power.

A predator. And I can suddenly perfectly understand the way Samson fights, though my own pulse and own frantic heartbeat. I fear nothing as I blink into the moon and let the dogs take the catch.

_A predator feels powerful._

_A predator takes what is his._

_A predator knows no remorse._

My hands are clenched around the gun. I creep slow . My feet are trying to distinguish every broken snapping twig or stone to stumble over on the floor.

Runt right, ears tingling, body grey and small. One ear left somewhere in the brushes.

They will circle, and then, when they are close enough, I will set them free.

"I win!" Loren shouts.

His voice booms through the trees, hangs in the air. A creature with wings flutters away, scared by the sudden nosie. The feet in the distance are faster now, having noticed the commotion.

A loud howl, and when I focus beyond again, whatever I felt close is gone far away.

I still try to make the dogs chase- but it will be less effective now.

Loren breaks through a brush and next to a branch hanging low.

My hands shake slightly and I grip the weapon hard when I stand up.

If there ever was any doubt left, it has cleared. Loren is an utter idiot.

"I win, Daliah," He holds up his arm. In his fingers sways a silken fabric. No doubt green and black, like House Vipers banner. "You can't do anything about it."

"Didn't you hear it?" I whisper the words.

He blows out a stream of air. Pretty, dark haired and dim witted as the piece of wood next to him.

"Wait until your father hears you blew it again, widow."

Widow. Widow he says. A knot of anger explodes in a bursting bubble in my stomach.

_Out here, in the woods, no one hears the shots._

His back is turned to me.

It would be so easy.

I lift the gun. Point it at his back.

I only need to pull the trigger to prove him wrong.

My fingers twitch on the metal. Only one small lingering move.

The dogs pant, tongues hanging out of their mouths they return to the small opening that bleeds silver light over our bodies.

I wonder a moment. Then my hands move down. The invisible target disappears from my cousins back.

The holster takes the gun in soundless.

_Not here. Not like this._

_He and Calpurnia and his father will see how I do it._

We make our way back slow. Loren holds the price in between his hands. The runt howls piercing through the air, making the end of the chase clear. _  
_

Atara emerges from the trees again as the storm of feathers she summons.

"She lost." Loren spits the words. Calpurnia looks pleased, lazy smile, head half tilted.

I mainly I assume it comes from her believing I yielded like she told me.

Three steps to the vehicle and I say goodbye to my only nice acquaintances in this round. The dogs let me brush through their fur with my fingers, scratching and rubbing one after the other.

I don't want to be near my family.

My father still lingers around me like a cloud of bad air. Disappointment smells like leather and something bitter when I sit down and wait to return to a loveless home.

"She asked me to lose," I explain, muttering the words through gritted teeth and clenched jaw.

"And did you deliberately just yield?"

My voice sounds too loud as it echoes in the small cage of a room we share, the seats we sit in. "No."

"I did not think so." He takes a deep breath. "What was it? Did Loren cheat you?"

I bristle under his questioning. Draw my shoulders together.

"There was something in the woods. A light." I press the words out of my throat. "And...Someone."

He doesn't bat an eye. "Red or Silver?"

I think about the way the dogs reacted, the trained hatred and anger. "Red."

"Well that confirms my suspicions a little," He mutters, leaning on his hand, chin half hidden under his fingers.

"You know, I thought there was something I maybe didn't see. Nothing came out of following trails. There was the fire and explosions, but the watermarks from the nymphs ruined most evidence. Then the fact it was an airbase and a jet. Then the rain taking any last chances. The animals were useless. Couldn't find a trail. But when I actually shared that, not too many people were keen on doubling the effort. They simply accepted my excuses. Orders. From way up high. Brushed under the rug. Assured everything possible would be done about this so-called red rebels."

He sounds slightly piqued. And I can understand that. No simple excuse and apology if you rely on power and strength.

_You clever old man. And here I thought you were completely neutered._

He sighs. "It would have been great to have some support, as it used to be when you were still married to Macanthos. People don't reason so much with you when renowned military officers and advisors have your back."

"I am so sorry he went to a warzone," I snap. "And came back in pieces that fit into my pockets."

He takes a long breath. Studies my face. Sees how I flush and burn again under a topic I do not even want to consider speaking about with him. Then decides it is not worth it.

"Thank you for your service, Lady Viper. You can return to your husband now."

I don't look at him anymore.

* * *

Caked in sweat, dirt, and wild hair flying through the air when I stomp into the house, I find a pair of blue eyes watching me from above the staircase, leaning on the banister.

My only reaction is to hiss at him. Samson takes it without much recognition, not even moving in his white shirt and slightly tousled hair. he looks as if he has been half asleep and I woke him up or interrupted his peace.

"How was your nightly excursion, widow?" His voice rakes over my spine.

I simply stomp past him.

"It was a hunt," I slip out of my jacket, carelessly and openly showing the dark sheen of metal on my upper body.

He stares at me all the way as I try to recover some parts of me and my hair and give up in the end.

I don't like the way he watches me at all. His blue eyes are cold, and hard, just like the dark night sky, clouded by something.


	19. Promise

_promise  
_

_-to suggest beforehand **:** give promise of_

_-to give ground for expectation **:** be imminent_

_-to pledge to do, bring about, or provide_

* * *

**_I_** watch a march of corpses at lunch.

They wear uniforms. They eat food only for the maggots to consume as soon as they rot under the earth.

And they will rot. No doubt about that.

I sit next to Atara with my legs crossed, leaning back, watching every face and attempting not to spit profanities and insults over the glass terrace. I stretch my fingers and the snakes twist over my upper body, one white and black strings of soft, perfect skin and deadly precision.

"This must rattle you," Atara mutters, pushing her dark hair back out of her eyes. The talon necklace around her throat gleams in the light. "I told you today would a something you belonged right in. Young, noble people, ready to give their life for the cause of winning this war."

She has no clue what she talks about. All her words itch on my spine.

"I could see it as my duty to entertain you," I answer. And silently curse everyone involved. I curse that dead volunteers, I curse them because they don't know a thing about what they do and where they will end. I curse those young enthusiastic people who think they are proud and bring honor and are courageous.

I curse every single one of their sisters and mothers, friends and foes, all the brightly clothed figures on the terrace eating and drinking.

I curse the King and his handshakes, I curse the princes nodding and congratulating and even going along, leading in some devastating charge.

I feel my tongue like a knife in my mouth, the tip pressing against my teeth in the attempt to hold back the words. I grip my glass with force. The liquid inside shakes. I curse the world.

And I bring my bad luck with me and all my misfortune.

It looms over the cushioned seats and tables filled with goblets, cups, and food, like a swarm of locusts, ready to devour whoever dares to come too close.

Atara tilts her head slightly. The black snake whirls down my arm, maw stretching wide open.

"People go willingly," she argues. "Someone has to fight and we have to hold our lines."

Defending and serving. Brave.

"Then let them. I am not complaining about war. Or sad stories resulting out of it." A drink for the fallen ones and the leftovers, I think, and I gulp and drown myself in the bitter taste. "My time for mourning has long passed."

And it has. And it is not my right to judge openly about anything anymore.

"Why did you let Loren win, by the way?" She changes the topic, crossing her arms over her dainty waist. "He is insufferable."

I could tell her the truth as I did with my father. But that wouldn't be smart. Even with her help for my hand, I can't trust Atara. One friendly gesture doesn't erase the rest of the hatred and forced company. _  
_

_Never tame, never true._

"Ask Calpurnia. Not me."

And with that, I am finished with her today. Instead, my attention returns to a silver-haired girl in metal and glory accompanied by a shadow with vibrant red curls.

Then it shifts away to another face I still need to question as long as I have the reprieve of no one stalking my memories.

Because you need to thank your benefactors, don't you?

My eyes have lost track of the older prince and Lady Titanos, but they aren't who I was looking for anyway.

The Irals set me on Lady Titanos like a dog, but I couldn't find too much with my eyes, it is kept good and quiet. Her lessons with Lady Blonos that old hag were boring to watch. Her squabbles with Evangeline or the other girls being sassy and nasty don't interest me too much. We all know who bites and who barks.

I shift through the crowd without looking at anyone too long. Bow left, nod right, move on. No one ever listens to me. Nothing has changed now. What does it matter I don't wear a veil but a ring? I am still as much branded as if someone has stuck hot iron to my brow.

_At least it means I can look and listen without too much disturbance, yes? At least most times._

I didn't get anywhere near to the other instructors' rooms, but that is because I fear any kind of mind control, and whispers are just one side of the coin. Jacos are singers, and if my bugs came too close, who knew what he could ask. I try to be careful, but every one that is remotely familiar with silver Houses and people around can see what I do. They could separate and hang me on my own little strings and webs. Samson makes a good attempt at it, taking straight up everything from my expertise and my past.

And the Irals stopped inquiring my information. I suppose someone doesn't like Ara sniffing around, and after my husband has told me to stay away, I can safely assume it is his cousin the queen pushing this away. It makes me a little curious, but I cannot do anything about, and so I stand off and away.

Black and crimson, stiff and uniformed like all of us. We are both pale. The snakes stretch their tongues and taste the air around us.

"Lady Viper," he greets me, politely. I follow the rules this time, especially since everyone can see.

I am still a little unsettled by the fact he has the same blue eyes as the ones that watch me in the nighttime at home.

But there is something different about them. Samson's eyes are simply cold, like my snakes, unblinking. They snap when he feels challenged and they freeze when he squeezes control out of me. Maven Calore's eyes are something else, and the fact I cannot identify it with the help of my knowledge about animals is making my fingers claw at my skirt.

"Thank you for telling him off," I mutter next to his shoulder, looking down on naked wrists. I am so used to seeing the bruises it is still strange but good I am unharmed again. "I am not sure what I did to deserve any intercession."

_Or what you want for it, prince._

"As I said," Is the only answer I receive, hands clasping together. We both stand next to each other as if we watch something, I am just unsure what he sees. "My cousin can be overbearing. I hope he treats you calmer now." _  
_

"I hope so too." I clear my throat. "I am sure if I can do anything for you, you know where to find me. We are strangely enough family now. _Almost_." _  
_

"I am looking forward to that." _  
_

Something in his voice makes me laugh. I chortle out a breath. One more favor on my list to repay. What does it mean if it keeps Samson off for a while? _  
_

* * *

I have spectators on the shooting range. One is keeping his distance, but I can see him, always a sore thumb in my sight not leaving me alone. He isn't alone. I assume just as I have taken the step to think the shooting range is good enough hideaway, he knows it is a bit easier at least between all the noise and occupied focus to go after business. Unfortunate coincidence or just another attempt to pester me because he wasn't in my head the last nights?

The second pair of eyes belongs to Sentinel Viper, standing silent and hands clasped at sides, undoubtedly relying the information of seeing me with a gun to Calpurnia.

The third one is the most surprising.

Evangeline's eyes move and something in her face twitches every time metal crushes. I am sure she feels every little piece around herself, especially the bullets.

We two have our fair share of history with bullets and guns, together or alone.

"I used to shoot at you and your brother." The last time I addressed her I tried to be humble. This time, she comes to me, and whatever it means, it makes me cautious. No friendly visit, I suppose. Those don't exactly exist for me. Not surrounded by bullets and metal. My hands cling to my gun. "Remember?"

She moves very silently, boots strafing over the stone. I keep my eyes on the black lines of the paper on the other side of the row.

"You had terrible aim."

I wish I could truly smile. I just plaster something on my face that vaguely resembles a friendly smile. "You still caught all the bullets. And I improved over the years, hopefully."

For a moment we are both locked away somewhere. In the past, where we were friends. Family. Preferred company. That has been so long it seems like a lifetime. The girl I used to lecture has disappeared in favor of a beautiful young woman that has the decisiveness and grace of hard stone and spikes, and I only have made the decline to be a discarded widow and now...Well, I am called either petty, or desperate, or am just ignored.

She stands taller than me. With that composure, I wish I had. Just like her mother.

"Why are you here?" I ask. "And be lucky my husband is far enough."

Her eyes are sharper than the metal. She throws over the smallest look acknowledging his existence. "He wouldn't dare."

I huff, stretch my shoulders. She isn't wrong. I suppose being the daughter of someone influential grants the necessary protection. At least when it comes to unwelcomed mind reading and ripping things out of memories she is comfortably safe.

He is cruel and violent, but my husband is not stupid enough to just force a conflict with the whole House Samos and their supporters for action as creeping into Evangeline Samos head. If he was to survive. She would probably cut off his head before anyone could stop her.

That image just amuses me in a grim manner.

"Your hand is fine?"

I am glad I can and have to focus on the gun. "Why wouldn't it?"

She doesn't take the bait. Just shakes her head slightly, silver braid swinging. "You wore gloves in the heat. Even for you, that is too much. And the bandage was visible under it if you looked closely."

I feel a familiar tingling headache and panic rises in me. I am not sure it is just because he is so close or if he is more subtle in my mind today.

"Well," I try to swallow the stale taste in my throat. "It was a nasty accident. I had unexpected assistance from a little bird in getting rid of it."

"Atara assisted?"

A row of shuddering loud flashes rings through the range, and when we both look over I can see the deadly precision of a much bigger gun that has left nothing but pieces and shatters on the ground.

"Yes, imagine my surprise."

The acid in my blood boils again thinking about everything that has happened, and especially when I stare over at the extended family I wanted to be a part of but never truly could stay.

"I know you spied on me the other day. I saw your eyes."

Her voice is almost soft, but that is only because she keeps it low, head turned away from most faces and the cameras blinking.

Samson has moved up, back slightly turned, arguing again with someone. Sentinel Viper has vanished, but I am sure we will meet again.

I look away from her. My face twitches again, and my voice sounds too shrill in my own ears. "Rest assured that the only person I willingly tell is your mother. She would know what you do anyway. And I do mean everything."

I hold a gun, but I am not a threat to her. I am too soft and low, too weak, trying to keep my composure, even with this small break from mental abuse ripping me apart. War makes widows and in this palace, it will not leave me alone. Ever.

"How would you describe that inexplicable feeling being so in love it hurts?" I am not sure why I ask her so directly. "Did that ever happen to you?"

"I warned you not to repeat yourself," she only offers, white teeth gritted slightly a moment.

My first reaction is a grimacing mess, lips pushing back.

"I won't. I am just doing what I am told, and I am trying to survive. But I asked you something. Out of interest. Younger people are better at love than older ones, I feel."

Her only answer is blinking at me, waiting, so I continue.

"I imagine your heart flutters like crazy, and you can't stop thinking about that person, the way they laugh, or the way they move. Their sheer existence in the cosmos is enough to make you want to be alive and with them. _Did that ever happen to you, Evie?_ "

I get no answer. I expect none anymore. I lift the pistol, shift my legs.  
"I have never felt real infatuation or love in my life. Except for family. So see it as my only value. I only spy on you because I wish to protect you."

"You always said nothing but family mattered."

"I want to stand by it, cousin. At least with you and your side of the family."

It is so very loud in here. Sounds ripping through the air. her voice almost gets lost. As intended, I suppose.

"And the rest of the Vipers?"

One more breath. Angling feet and shoulders.

Her eyes follow my motions.

"We will see."

Then I pull the trigger.

The first bullet explodes and rips into the target in an explosion of sounds.

I breathe again, fill my lungs, and pull it a second time. A third. My bullets fill the target with relative precise shots. I am never going to instinctively fling metal like Evangeline. I am not as perfect and silent as an Iral.  
But for my standards, I have just put a lot of theoretically deadly metal into a potential target.

When I turn my head, blue eyes study the holes on the black paper.

Then his ashen-haired head turns unnoticeable, and his eyes study my cousin, shift over to me.

I simply push myself out of the sight of the cameras.

He still watches me when she is gone.

I do something stupid. But it is too late to stop it now.

I lift the gun a bit, angle it at him.

His eyes narrow but my finger is not on the trigger and the bullets have all been sent flying.

"Bang," I whisper.

 


	20. Map

_map_

_-to plan in detail_

_\- to make a map of_

* * *

**_S_** ilken strings form a barrier in front of earth and a small stone protecting the body behind. The entrance of the burrow is sealed.

The boy stares through it, face reflecting in the glass of the box. His hands clam a piece of fabric.

"Molt," I say, looking up from the papers in my hands.

The small bucket to his feet rattles when he almost kicks it over.

"The spider," I look at the desk cluttered with my letters, the maps and the pens. "It sheds its exoskeleton. They do that at points in their life. It is called molt."

I don't expect an answer. Still, it is almost strange seeing anyone take some interest in my critters.  
I don't miss being under other animosi. I always prefer my dark rooms, I did in the Viper residence and I do now. I never have visitors except for my father.

The Boy keeps coming around. He's only one of two constant, consecutive human-shaped forms that break the quiet around my room with their steps.

For a while he is silent. I remember how careful he picked up the spider. And that he knew how to react when the dogs surrounded him.

My fingers swipe over my brow, fingertips pressing against my forehead with force. The chase won't leave me alone.

Not the way my blood pumped and I was invincible for a split second, but the blinking of something, a sign of life, trying to be covered, and the way we hunted after it.

My father talks about cold trails, but I know I have seen something, and I hope for his sake that he follows through and investigates more possibilities.

My fingers tap over the wood and paper.

The red boy continues to work between my cages and terrariums, cleaning.

I look down at the impossible and senseless letters.

"Can you read, boy?"

His narrow hands fidget with the cloth between them. "A little, Lady Viper."

"Hm." I tilt my head slightly. Hair has escaped my knot in a few dark strands and falls over my shoulder now. "And can you read maps?"

"I can try," His tongue stutters again.

I move my hand, wave him over. He hurries, feet scraping over the carpet.

"I will help you out," I offer. My hand wanders back over the map. Fingers pointing. "See. We are here. Here is Summerton. There is the Hall of the Sun. And here," I point in the general area I believe I have been chasing in the night if my senses are to trust, then my fingers are swiping over another point and marks. "Is a red village."

He follows my fingers and words more attentive than I would have guessed, eyes dark and easy in the light. "The Stilts. It is called the Stilts, Lady Viper. Because of the way the houses are built."

"Are you from there?"

Something in me wonders why I bother to ask. But there is no more easy and reliable information than from a local, I suppose.

He is obviously not prepared to be addressed at all, less even on personal matters.

He takes all the air left in his little lungs and skinny body and pushes the words out. "No, Lady Viper. But most of my family lives at the Viper residence or the servant quarters at the palace in the summer anyway."

I lean on my hand, elbow half hiding the map. "Most of you got jobs then?"

"My sister's are working as maids and servants. My brother got conscripted last year."

"Still down there?"

There is still a slight flush on his neck when he turns his eyes down. "Dead, Lady Viper."

I know how that feels, at least. I hide the crude line of my lips behind my palm for a moment. "So your sister is the poor girl my cousin always lets the dogs loose on?"

Anger, suppressed, narrow hands fidgeting again, fingers gripping worn out fabric. "One of them. The other works in the Hall of the Sun. But we rarely get to speak. "

"What a shame," I mutter. "Loren Viper is a pig and an utter fool, by the way."

I am not sure why he looks at me the way he does. Almost grateful.

I wait startled. Move my hand again to tell him to move on if he has to say more.

"Last time we talked was after the Queenstrial. After the Lady that grew up in The Stilts crashed into the arena."

I plaster an expression on my face that I hope looks halfway comforting. "You worry."

"The mood is bad, Lady Viper."

I scoff. "It could be way worse. Let it pass."

People are already distracted on the outside, at least. And everything uncomfortable is swept away.

Only on the outside though. Everything is brittle and you need to be careful. I can be lucky I am just a small light and petty widow.

A fly on the wall.

With a buzzing sound and a small whirring, the small fly sits on my index finger.

I have learned more about other peoples - and especially younger ones- relationships that I want. What I told Evangeline holds true. I still write to her mother.

I know all the girls are somewhat focused on making this whole ordeal count for their familiy's sakes. It's old alliances and new faces. And then there is still the Parting Ball.

I mostly try to escape social events that need the attendance of my husband, and the schedule of being the female Viper company suits me perfectly in that regard.

But I really can't escape the Ball in that regard.

I smile at the small legs clinging to my fingers, tickling.

_Lucky I am a very good dancer._

Door angles and hinges explode downstairs. It erupts through the whole house, a bang, like a gun I recently fired and pointed. I almost expect a flash of white pain, but it doesn't come. It seems I can hide behind old and new family, for now, making sure to protect me with their presence or a few words to my favor.

My scalp still tingles. It doesn't change when footsteps come closer.

It feels like a maw opening to expose fangs and a throat, and it swallows me whole.

I collect the papers, stack them with a hard grip. A whiff of cool air fills my lungs.

"You can clean the rest up later."

His eyes are miserable brown puddles again.

The animals tap and throw themselves against the walls of their boxes, hiding and attacking, fleeing and hissing.

* * *

I watch the sentinels and guards in the palace, I sort them by houses as far as I can.

One Viper, a Gliacon, there is the Samos, and Irals, getting most of the cake again, as always, unfair, unfair, big houses always do.

My spider catches a glimpse of a hand on a console.

Even if they can detect movement, distinguishing things that happen on the bright screen is too difficult through bugs and spiders eyes for me. A shame.

Just another day for the work, cameras, control.

The sun tingles on my skin, and I hold myself on the bench as best as I can.

From my little safe space I can watch most processions of people wander along. I count colors and banners as I did with the sentinels. Funny enough, I could just call it counting old men and withered stiff women.

I stay far off any meeting place that could make a Macanthos pop right in my face. Because even if I am not wearing my gun right now, I am sure I would kick and bite and stab with all my nails, heels and teeth. That means staying away from council rooms at least during military talks, and maneuvering around the training area too. And that results in me missing out on my favorite cousin mauling the bird girl, or so I hope. Someone ought to stuff her smirking mouth from time to time.

My father looks downtrodden in the entourage that sprawls along the corridor.

Green and Black for Viper.

Black and Gold for Provos.

And that most prominent black and silver undoubtedly for Samos.

When his eyes catch my face, they narrow. He looks staggering similar to my uncle a moment with that anger. Then it is over and he just blows out air exasperated. On his chest gleams a gold and silver pin when he comes closer. A snake whirling. A viper sigil.

"I told you to be patient," he says in between gritted teeth. "And you wave a gun around at your husband in open aggression. People have eyes, Daliah Viper. You can be glad most are annoyed by Samson sniffing behind them and trying to get in their businesses. I know I am."

"I am very patient." I chuckle bitter, mouth and eyebrows pulling together. "I didn't shoot him yet. But we had a little disagreement this morning again."

His tongue clicks once before sitting down on the stone next to me.

"Did you get my note, father?"

"There is nothing to be found and everything inconspicuous in the woods," he mutters. "And I won't let the few resources I have loose in that kind of terrain."

I push a curl back behind my hair. "This province proves me wrong over and over again with being inconspicuous. It wouldn't surprise me at all if this was the same. What about that village, if you can't follow trails in the woods or somewhere else? And the family that raised our lost Lady Titanos?"

"No," He shakes his head. It is the final conclusion. "I can't dig around this nest openly. And you said the Iral's were backing off from the topic they set you on too."

There ought to be another way. Something I can use that doesn't make it too easy to get me on the wrong foot. I tilt my head and stare over the courtyard, the spiraling metal, stone and impenetrable glass that stops bullets.

It gnaws on me for too long. Like the dogs on bones, having to crush he pale white ribs and legs that once belonged to another animal, crushing it to pieces. My brain has been occupied by another person, and even if this is over for now, or just a reprieve for a short duration, it has already left marks inside me. I find it hard to concentrate, and still feel drained as long as I am sure I am not all alone and safe.

I still need to find out why the Queen watched me so closely, and why they hold their hands over our Lady Titanos to an extent that makes born spies glare. I still need to do something about Samson, because, with all my hatred, I can't battle him the whole time. And he doesn't back off. The word retreat, or even defeat, aren't words he can understand. That is why even with his restrictions, the way he is treated and his way to butt his head in, he is still proud, and angry, and vicious. Now more than ever. I challenge him with the gunpoint and afterward, and always.

I still need to pay back Maven Calore and he still hasn't called that favor in.

_And my family is another thing. Those Vipers deserve some taste of their medicine in the future._

A red man with a broom sweeps to my right. My heels click over the stone on the courtyard.

I press my lips together, look at the sweeping broom. Dust particles whirl through the yellow light and get lost in the blue sky as I look up.

Maybe I can combine all that to some simple change of methods.


	21. Perpretation

_perpretation  
_

_-to bring about or carry out (something, such as a crime or deception)_

_-to produce, perform, or execute (something likened to a crime)_

* * *

**_I_** tried to see the world through the eyes of spiders. Through ants, through snakes, through all the lovely little creatures that no one ever notices. Their eyes have limits and their brains are small, their systems easy to manipulate. Vermin and small organisms most people don't want to see.

I forgot there is something else silver people don't want to see with the exception of venting their violence or proving their superiority - it is their red servants.

My fingers rip at my hair, pull it together as tightly as I can. Needles holding tight on my scalp and a dark mass of hair just like the needles that inflict stitches inside every piece of my mind, like the sharp stinging sensation of my husband's cologne when he is too close. Luckily, that is not the case now.

It is me, my glass cages, my animals, and the boy.

"I hope you could meet your family on your free day." My voice sounds almost soft. Like the voice of a girl with a long braid and a family, wearing green and waiting for another husband to return home.

"Yes, thank you. And...Thank you for the money. It helps." That is all he says, eyes blinking. His ears are slightly pink.

I look away from him. "Good."

There is little more to say. Not from my side. He did what I told him to do, and I gave him money and whatever attention and kindness he seems to long for in my presence.

"Lady Viper..."

"Yes?"

His feet shuffle on the ground, I hear the scraping, pounding insecurity.

"I know you told me to keep away as fast as possible from your husband as I can. But...I had to clean up his rooms."

He can barely read, as I know now. But maybe it helps to identify easy things such as colors or types of letters. No use in letting this chance go to waste. "And? Any important letters left open?"

"There were some official things." He stutters and stumbles over his tongue. "About the ball, and some paper about finances, I think? I am not sure."

Then it wasn't important. I sniff, nostrils flaring a little disappointed, but there was nothing I really expected. Official is not the kind of information I would look for at his side. The most harmless notes are sometimes more worth than official documents.

I move my head, check if my hair is in place one last time.

The boy sounds disturbed when he speaks up again, desperately trying to keep his voice even.

"He keeps a jar in his shelf. There was a cloth over it, but I..."

Peeked inside. Curiosity is an evenly good and bad trait. Just as poison, it needs the right dosage.

I nod. "What was it? Something gruesome, I imagine."

"A moth, " Something in me freezes at his quiet words and fumbling hands. "With one missing wing. But alive. Nothing else."

He has no clue what it means. I know exactly why it is a moth. I was the one that sent it to him in the first place. He held it in his hands.

Just some morbid curiosity how long it would stay alive? Caged, chained, like me? Boredom?

No. I remember his hands, his eyes, and his clear frustration.

I grit my teeth. The boy misunderstands my tense body and hands curled into fists.

"I shouldn't be scared. I love your spiders and bugs. But..it was just helplessly fluttering up and down when I pulled the cloth off, Lady Viper. I just wanted to let it out."

"But you didn't?" I ask, trying to relax my muscles.

He shakes his head, hair flying and pushing over his brow.

_Good._

"I'll greet your sisters," I promise to him when I leave the house.

* * *

If I want to investigate the woods or the village, or anything, I need the dogs again.

That is simple and true. Any trail that could be cold for me, any familiarity escaping me, could be just in reach for their noses. Despite the things my fathers assures me, I am almost sure of the opposite. If I can just return to those small woods, close to the mud of the huts that are placing miserable red lives in their small spaces, I may find something. I can't let go of this, not after what has happened this night. Everything my father has said about it just makes me bite harder into it.

But I can't simply walk into the Viper residence and take them.  
My uncle doesn't just give them to me anymore.  
I need to make it so they think it was their idea. Grip them by their pride. Make them step towards me.

My Viper cousin may be helpful at that, even if she doesn't know it yet.

Her hair is a tousled mess, gray splotches pushing over her cheeks from the training. Heron is now where to be seen. At least that means separating her is easier.

I wait for a while and watch until I am sure I can simply lean forward to her.

"Did you ask Calpurnia about Loren winning?" I mutter.

A vein in her throat jumps to life, muscles strained when she tries to not react to my question.

"Unfair, grooming your idiot brother, isn't it?"

"And what do you want to do about it?"

My lips curl into the polite mask of a smile. "Repeat the chase."

She scoffs softly, upper body moving under the breathing, white triangle of skin blinking under green silk. "So _you_ can win this time?"

I fold my hands together, a single ring glistening on my right. "What if I promise to make you win, Atara?"

_Win, win, accomplish something._

Someone is always better. Someone is smarter, more successful. More beautiful. More influential.

After always being beaten by Evangeline and me and her brother, and never keeping anything despite the pressure and efforts, it plucks a string inside her. I see it in her burning eyes surrounded by black streaks of hair and charcoal lines.

"Ask your father," I instruct her. "Tell him you know it was rigged. And tell Loren he has to prove himself without his father and the old snake holding his hand."

"That bait." She bites her lip, worrying the soft flesh a split second. Then she smirks. Her curse bringing, satisfied smirk, a triumph. "Alright. I will make them repeat it tomorrow."

"A wise decision."

I bow and move on. Time has barely passed, sticky like syrup on a spoon.

Between the glass of a window and the stone of a corridor, my eyes meet a red girl. The sky is damp and clouded, the air still cool. It brushes over our bodies.

Her uniform is clean, but it is just that, a uniform for a maid, and she keeps her body small and her head down. She is seventeen, maybe, regular looking, I suppose. Unimpressive.

With some force, my heels click angry over the stone. She carries some bag, forming a lump. When she sees me, she steps to the left. I also step to the left.  
Our bodies almost collide. I just smash right into her, and she has to back away with the grace of someone used to doing that.

The ring slips off my finger. It clashes over the hard ground, clinging sounds of metal rolling over. It trembles there, a few seconds before it stops.

Her eyes are the same miserable dark puddles as her brothers. She is just as silent too. She looks at me, green and black, heels and high collar. If that is not an indication who I could be, I am very sure the mantis balancing dangerously on my ear is.

I sigh loudly, keep my head as high as I can.

"Pick it up. Don't just stand there like an idiot, girl!"

I watch her scurry, buckle and kneel at my feet, picking the ring up and balancing the back she holds on tightly.

Then she scrambles to her feet.

When she hands it to me, something else slips into my hand. It is the smallest folded piece of paper.

It disappears inside my palm, and I hurry to slip it deep inside my sleeve.

Strangely, that gesture is familiar and practiced over the years of dealing with secrets.

If only I needed nothing more and could impress the world with my skill to slip things inside my sleeve and lurk around in corridors, I would be a Queen.

I keep it for myself until I have found a safe place.

Taking a breath, I finally pull it out. I glance at the small, lanky descriptions and letters. A list of some sort. Small. Almost feels useless to be so secure about it.

 _'Follows schedule'_ stands on top.

I already knew that.

Some wild descriptions of dresses and too much used makeup.

I guess a maid does take note of that.

So much makeup. A really _exorbitant_ amount per day.

I tilt my head, wrinkle my brow.

 _'People'_ contains as many names or colors as the girl remembers. Mostly concerning royalty. As much as I expected. But some little nice details about her guards.

As soon as I have finished reading the paper, I stuff it into my mouth. The paper is dry and dusty, It tastes almost bitter. I swallow hard, chew mechanically until it forms a warm cloaked ball in my mouth.

An entourage of sentinels flies through the hallway and down the corner. A glance, and I smile, hastily chewing and devouring the rest of the paper to destroy evidence. I almost choke on it.

The paper is the only thing I eat the whole day. Luckily for me, I have dinner before me, with my lovely husband.

We eat outside. I find it more fitting to settle for this gruesome joke. Spending time on this porch, in this backyard, when I almost killed him and he almost killed me out here. Everything swiped away and leaving no trace.

The chair is comfortable though. At least something while I wait.

The candle and lanterns flicker around us, panting our shadows over the walls and tinting our small, confined kingdom orange and crimson, yellow and white.

I shiver in my jacket when he takes one very cautious step towards the table seated with plates and glasses. He looks impeccable, every ashen hair sleek in place, no dust or crinkles on his blue and white.

Even his boots seem to shine in the dim light.

I am ruined in comparison, black swallowing most of the dirt and sweat, hair threatening to finally escape the knot that has been stone hard and in place the whole day.

"Please, take a seat." I stretch out my hand. The palm is smooth and pale in the light, but only days ago it was torn and bloody. I remember the pain. And so does he. "Have some late night dinner with your wife. A drink? No poison, I promise."

"What do you want?" He sounds frustrated. As if he doesn't have the capacity to deal with my allures without relying on reading my thoughts.

I sigh, chest heaving with one single breath. "I think it is the right moment for a parley, that is all."

My bones are aching. I feel the weight of my skin like a wet blanket pulling me down.

"A discussion of points in dispute." I see the tip of his tongue when he licks his lips once and think about the moth inside the jar.

"That is the very definition of parley," I say, face barely holding back from a sneer.

"Where is your gun?" His eyes are a blue, frozen sea, and they grip me and hold me tightly.

I knew he would say that after I made that little threat at the shooting range. With one motion I pull out the gun from underneath my jacket and put it on the table next to my glass. It makes a small hard sound on the tabletop.

"Empty it, widow. No need for accidents."

My lips tug into a grimace when I do as he says. I slide the magazine out of the dark sheen, putting it down next to the gun. Two pieces of metal.

"Good." He slowly sits down. The light shines low, and his face looks like a skull, all sharp bones, and shadows. "Even if I still believe you don't have to make demands. You got my attention."

"Oh," I want to break the glass on his head, but instead I just drink. I never liked wine too much. But it helps not to break my composure. And toasting to dead people and curses has become a tradition already somehow. The moth in the jar is a very visible thought branded in me with fear and anger and disgust. "I can believe that, my darling snake."


	22. Snap

_snap_

_-to utter sharp biting words_

_-to grasp at something eagerly_

* * *

**_I_** n the rising and falling tide of flickering lights and shadows painted over the table and our seats, our faces and hands, we are two pale forms battling the wish to end this charade one way or another.

Samson doesn't even touch any of the plates, not even his glass. Something about that amuses me.  
I smile, and for the first time, he is the reason I am amused. Like he just shared a good joke with me, his caution only is a compliment flattering me, warming some part in me that wants to be feared and seen.

"I told you I won't poison you tonight," I allow myself some small patronizing.

His eye twitches. Maybe it is just a shadow flickering from the light.

"No. You just poison women that trust you and their security personnel."

I swallow, blow out a stream of air. My body wants to deflate at the mention, tense shoulders slumping forward slightly. Amusement washed off.

Finding the sore spots, as always. Samson my nasty rash. It is a good thing I am drinking and he is not inside my mind tonight.

"They wanted to remove me."

_Send me back to my family, because I had a few public meltdowns. They took my home. They took everything I had worked for. Sending me to the Vipers as if I was a stubborn little girl._

"So you removed them first?" He sounds almost intrigued now.

I shake my head.

"That is not how it went. You know it was not planned this way. You were in my head, after all."

_Bad luck has no point of direction. It just strikes._

His back rests against his seat again when he relaxes a little, head tilted slightly. His fingers lay around his glass, dark liquid swaying. Samson still doesn't drink. "True, otherwise they would have executed you, even with your father trying his best to make amends and blackmail you out."

I smile for myself, less amused now. "That is how it works."

"Your father bought you out, and then he sold you again, while you still wore that veil." The way he disregards me with his whole body and words makes my smile fade.

"Where you born like this?" I ask, crossing my arms in front of my body. Two thin arms over stiff layers of clothes. "Were you born to be this despicable?"

"Do you want me to tell you a story about my youth? Maybe a lost love. Some tragedy. Or violence. Expectations I couldn't keep, and someone in my mind like you fear it all the time. No, widow," He shakes his head, hair bright in the light. "I don't want to trade sad stories."

I sigh, chest heaving with one single breath. "I knew you wouldn't."

"Then don't ask. Yours are pathetic enough for both of us." He continues. If he would choose to pin my arms down, hold my wrists and elbows again and leave bruises, he couldn't paralyze me more effectively.

He leans forward.

"How is that? Knowing you aren't enough, no matter the efforts, and in the end, you are left with nothing?"

I drink from the glass, heavy gulps to stop myself from shivering and shaking, trying to wash the stale taste away. The glass glitters in the light. "It feels terrible. But I guess you know some things about being inferior yourself, with your position and heritage."

His eyes barely blink, and there is no visible reaction of being uncomfortable at the mention, or anything, really. He keeps it inside. But there is the twitching of his thin fingers and that look in his eyes that tells me I have hit a nerve. I want to pull and poke at it. But that would only make him angry. I need him in a considerate mood.

I bowed before to countless people. I tug my tail in and almost roll around and show my belly just for my cousins and Ara. It still takes all the self-control to swallow my pride and not bite now. This butcher doesn't deserve my humility.

"I didn't ask you to meet to insult you tonight, Samson." I offer it with a grain of salt, teeth ripping into the soft flesh on the inside of my cheek.

He takes my words with the same doubt as me, but he seems almost pleased by the notion.

I return to the cup between my palms and just turn my eyes to the sky in dark blue glory. The moths flutter over the table again, and one lands in between us. I don't attempt to control it.

I almost flinch when he moves on his chair, the whole body leaping to life just a split second later, cracking like a whip through the quiet air between us. "Let us get it over."

I knit my eyebrows. "So we settle on something this easy?"

"You don't have demands to make, I told you." He huffs out a breath. Pride filled. "And it is painfully obvious you only try to manipulate me as long as you can still rely on protection."

He is not wrong. I hold the glass tightly, liquid shaking.

That is the biggest problem with this whisper. He knows my most private thoughts and everything about the way I see the world if he wants to.

That reminds me I know almost nothing about him or his preferences, really. I know where he sleeps, how he dresses, the little ways his body moves to express emotions. Slightly raised eyebrows, twitching fingers. That doesn't tell me as much about his personal affairs. Even predators mate, don't they?

I lean back, chair creaking. My feet curl together in my shoes. I move them like cat retract their claws, back and forth, trying to relax them. Even as used to high heels and long days, I feel sore.

"Did you ever have any kind of strong physical connection that didn't rely on violence? Or a mental one that didn't.." I roll my eyes. "Oh, you know."  
Rely on torture and abuse.

He takes a sip from his own glass, half-amused, lips curling up. "You waste my time to ask about my sexuality?"

That is not an answer at all. I try to ignore the mock. "I can ask what I want."

His eyes flicker in the orange lights, studying the dance of the moths. He looks as if I am straining whatever patience he still has left, a small line forming between his eyebrows.

"A man with your talents for violence and sticking in heads probably likes interesting minds. And interesting minds...may lead to something else attractive. Or is it violence? Maybe blood? Or maybe," I sniff out a stifled chuckle, half breath, half mockery. "Maybe I misunderstand your need to control things."

He shrugs slightly, drinks again.

"You don't deny anything."

His voice feels like nails scratching in my ear. "Do you want to find out?"

Something in me shrivels and withers away in disgust at the sheer thought. The rest of myself is wide awake, an animal on the watch, ears tilted.

I count my breath in the silence between us, blood rushing in my veins.

Catching his attention feels vile. And the moth in the jar only makes me hope I never hold it for too long. He called my head decayed once, and he didn't understand my remorse. And even if I entertain him at best and bore him at worst, it is most likely for the best to never get too interesting for him in the long run.

After all, we are bound together with chains.

If he wants to, he can strangle me with them and I will not escape. He is right, I can hide behind my cousins and the prince for now. But someday they will not be there.

"I don't think we would find an agreement with who is in control." I shrug it off, choking on the breath in my lungs and the liquor on my tongue. "Our nightly meetings never turned out satisfying."

"For you." He stands up, very slowly. His eyes aren't leaving my face. "Tell me what you want or I will just rip it out of your head. And I won't care for my cousin."

Turning my head down, my eyes find the gun on the table. I keep my hands as fists curled at my sides.

"No, please." Please? It feels like begging. I want to vomit, stomach protesting, and acid rising in my throat.

"Please," I repeat. "We don't have to repeat this straining fight around my mind."

He sits down as slow as he stood up, hands gripping the armrests tightly.

"I want to know what the whisper Queen wants me to do. What she is waiting for. Why she was watching me."

"If I knew," The smallest smile curls his mouth thin, pride, and something bitter. "Why would I tell you that?"

"What do you want more than anything else? I am sure I have a clue or two. But you might as well tell me." No mind reader here, just the same old patterns of behaviour that clutter through my life and I try to read.

I get no immediate response.

The longer he waits and gives me no answer, the more I feel like this was the worst idea I ever had. The moths around us suddenly seem hectic, drawn to the light not dancing anymore but flurrying around it. One sizzles into the bright light and dies faltering, smothered, burned, destroyed.

"Come here," He doesn't ask. I have to hold the sneer back again. "and maybe I tell you."

My body bristles to follow any commands, especially from him.

The table seems to shrink when I have to round it up and walk over. Too little steps, too little distance.

Surrendering is making me physically sick. We both know where and why this is going on as it is.

If it can't be mental wounds and bruises, it has to be another kind of wound, another kind of loss for me. It isn't so wrong what I told him about the sole, ridiculous idea of ever sleeping with him. We have that spark, that spine breaking need to be dominant and not overlooked. It is the same as the way we touch now. I sink down on his armrest, palms pressed together on my lap.

His fingers seem very pale in the small cone of light casting his shadow over his body. His hand trails over my side, slowly, resting on my waist.

"I am all ears," I press out.

His knuckle strokes over one side of my face, temple over cheek below to my jar, one long, cold line.

"You can't give me what I want, because you will never possess it."

"A shame," I mutter. My fingers feel clammy when they reach for his collar, gripping it hard between my fingers a few moments, feeling the smooth fabric on my skin.

"Let me finish." His fingers are like needles pricking my skin where he touches me. They wander below my face again and rest on my throat, slipping under my collar over my pulse bloating in my veins. My body cringes and shivers. He doesn't even need to hurt me. "You can't give me what I want. But you can still be useful. It's why I agreed to marry you in the first place."

_Why thank you._

"I won't let you inside my head by my own account, "I decline. "Why do you even dare to ask."

His fingers stop wandering along with my pulse, retreat, pushing me. I almost stumble.

"You can't win, widow. I can just take what I need."

I want to hit him, spit at him, hurt at him. Instead, all my muscles tense and I unwrap myself from my seat at his armrest, heels scraping over the ground.

"Well, this is over then. You were right. A waste of time."

My instincts are running havoc. I want to run and shout.

I simply take the gun off the table and leave him behind as fast as I can. A gush of air, a swarm of moths, and a pair of pale eyes following me.

I need to focus, I need to be careful. Leaning against my door, I realize this was a mistake. I should have known he wouldn't budge.

Through the silvery sheen of pale light and darkness that shrouds my room, hides the cages, I feel like my days are numbered. Not a good feeling, not at all.


	23. Integrity

_integrity_

_-firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values_

* * *

_**T**_ he morning light tickles me quietly in the silence of the house, bright-lit floor empty when I rush through.

I imagine Samson is either still hiding in his room and is rather happy with how our meeting turned out or already gone.

The memory of his touch remains with me, irks me the wrong way. His hands on my body are worse than bruises. Bruises and cuts at least, show ruination. His cool fingers caressing my pulse only leave the feeling of being tainted. I chew on the shivers and cringing disgust, molars grinding in my tightly shut mouth.

I even seem to miss the boy, one empty and discarded bucket at the stairway when I move down.

All my eyes are very blind today. They don't see or report anything special. The maid at least has some small tidbits of Lady Titanos life for me, and even though it isn't much, I decide that after my small investigation in the woods comes to any fruition, I will try my best to sell what I have.

As long as Samson keeps away from my brain, I have the least bit of free will and space, and I can't let it go to waste.

If I can give Ara anything to work with, she may or may not find our arrangement suitable enough to give me something in return. I am not convinced they have backed up from the topic after the initial respect. They just know they can't show it. I know very well how that works.

I may not be an Iral. But I am still a spy. And my family branches on many fields related to warfare. I was married to a decorated officer. A silent war is a dangerous war, through ambushes in the night or words slowly whispered or waiting to be caught.

The way I rush, almost run, the way my hands are tightly clasped at my sides, just show that I still feel like my time is running out. I need something, I need anything. Samson said I couldn't win, but it doesn't mean I have to _lose._

My father has a point though, no one has inquired about it, even after bringing it up. And I know I need to be careful.

At lunch, my foes and enemies have gathered again.

I find myself with Atara for the time being, in lovely company of her friend Heron Welle.

They are chatting about the Ball. I can't concentrate on them for long. A familiar scar faced figure watches me constantly.

If I could, I would grab a knife from any of the tables and jump over before the meal has started. I'd drive it into her body before she can save herself.

Atara's hand touches my arm slightly to catch my attention. The movement almost makes me jolt.

"The last time you danced, was that with-"

I don't let her say his name, cut her off with one quick move of my body and my voice.

"It was. You wore that silly feather in your hair because you thought it made you look exotic and stepped on poor Oliver's feet." My arms loosely folding behind my body, I scoff low. "Seriously, a ridiculous thing. Atara looked like a goose that year."

The slightest shade of gray creeps up Atara's neck at the mention.

"I'm sure you were pretty," Heron assures her. "And you can dance very good. We practiced together, I know it."

I am too occupied with battling the Colonel with subtle deadly glares to actually answer to them anymore.

We could as well be alone. She narrows her eyes slightly. Does not accept defeat to me.

"What is he doing here?" Atara wonders sharply.

Herons eyes are as blue as his coat when she follows Ataras words and glances over to the opening and doors.

As always he stands out against the stone wall to me, light a shimmering reflection over one illuminated streak of sleeked back hair.

Muscles in me tense and almost burst again.

This is new. He never makes an appearance anywhere close me and my schedule. We rarely see each other during the day, and I was always very fine with that.

I smooth over my pant's legs to hide my palms starting to sweat.

"Excuse me a second."

I move through the seats and tables over. For a moment he stands still. Seeing me approach, Samson's only reaction is a slight adjustment on his feet.

My hands try to coil back from the touch, but he still grips them hard, crushing force and no release.

"Pretend I wish you something nice."

"Pretend you care." I hurl back but try to ease my tense shoulders and look as if I won't just kick him in the shin if he doesn't let go quickly. "What brings you? I am very busy."

Something satisfying lies in his curled mouth, and it makes my body alert, ready to jump. "Not everything in my life is about you."

Sure, that makes sense. Taking orders like the henchman he is. And he feels so superior in it too. Remarkably dense, that pride, sometimes.

"Annoyed anyone with your sheer presence today yet, whisper?"

Samson's marble eyes gleam with something slight, a thought so inherently unbelievable he can't fathom it. Then his fingers brush over mine once more. Thumb cooly on my skin.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

I tilt my head. "Are you invited to any eligible meeting today? Or just annoying my poor father?"

"Your father at least knows his place. And is very compliant."

And before I can pull my hand away, he lifts it to his face. His lips don't touch it. But the breath hitting my skin is enough to make my stomach gurgling, and his presence lingers.

He enjoys seeing me recoil and try to concealing it too much for my taste.

Ellyn Macanthos is still watching me, and something cautious but curious clings to her expression a moment, washing over the disgust and hatred.

Tonight is a chance. I need to find something. The hunt is strangely exciting me with a rush of fluttering as I think about it. Any movement is appreciated. And I am good at this. Beating the everliving smug grin out of Loren will be a bonus.

Tonight is still too far away. And the two people that compete in my mind to be hated the most have both rattled and rubbed me off the wrong way.

My fist hits the punching bag with force. It rattles on its chain, back and forth swaying like a pendulum over my head.

"You still draw your shoulders together when you ready yourself, it speaks about your bad stance."

Ellyn Macanthos wears her uniform with the stable pride and worth of someone used to stand to attention. The scar looks grizzled in the light over her face, and her eyes are surrounded by dark circles.

Something in me twitches, ready to repeat my mistakes and jump her.

"I am not going to a battlefield filled with guns and grenades with you only to get ripped to shreds. So none of your concern, Colonel."

My lips curl upward in a sneer when I meet her gaze. The memory of a medal, a fight over a burial, hands clawing at her face, poison, accusations - all that stands between us and more in the small space of a circle drawn on the ground around a punching bag.

Hollow tiredness and anger lie in the void behind her eyes. She only takes one step "You can't provoke me today, Daliah. I know your colors."

I punch the bag hard again, once, twice, with as much force as I can muster. "Not yours anymore."

Something putrid flows in between the air, a literal toxic creeping in our throats and hearts the longer we stand together.

Her voice is firm, just as everything about her.

"If you were still one of mine, I would have let them execute you."

The punching bag snaps back when I hit it with force of my foot. It swings back so heavy it hits the wall and makes a crashing noise. The sound gets drowned in between the other cacophony of too loud noise. I am not dabbling with elemental forces or even anything that is over the normal level of the power of a small hand desperately trying to execute anger.

"I am not, and you can't do anything." My chest heaves up and down as I try to focus.

Her voice surprises me. Just as her eyes took me in earlier, there is some caution but true interest behind it.

"How does Samson Merandus treat you?"

I didn't ask my family to help me after they basically left me to rot with Samson, and I didn't cry for help to any of my associates or Larentia outside of the small notes about headaches in my letters. Because I know no one would be willing to help me. And because I can't trust them.

Trusting in Ellyn Macanthos and telling her anything would be out of the question even if we were friendly towards each other.

I narrow my eyes at her straight form.

"You want to gloat about my situation? Go ahead, I have been made fun of the last year more than enough."

To my surprise, her tied back hair jumps up and down slightly when she shakes her head.

"I heard you almost fainted."

"None. Of. Your. Concern." I repeat. "You either leave me alone, or we can repeat that brawl we had, I would be glad to hurt you."

"I would just break your nose again, and worse," She promises. "And strangely, I know that beating a small woman with a petty streak won't help anyway in solving real problems and tasks."

I huff out a breath, disparaging, eyebrows drawing together.

"How responsible and humble," I mock. "I guess then you are having a hard time opposing others in the council meetings."

"Being responsible also means acknowledging mistakes." Her eyes aren't angry anymore. Locked somewhere distant. A battle born, calm shield made of silver blood able to turn to stone. "Loving you was a mistake."

Something in me glows as bright as hot steel around my punctured chest and heavy breathing. I swipe over my brow, cold sweat clinging on my sleeve.

My chuckle is a disconnected, high pitched, almost hysteric sound.

"Love is always a mistake, Ellyn. When will you realize?"

* * *

The night crawls at the doorstep and windowsills too slow. As it finally engulfs, I already wait in front of the house.

Small lights shine through the skeletal form of windows and below creaks. It shines over my black-dressed form that always seems to shrink when I don't wear heels.

I am alone this time. So as soon as we start to drive through the landscape, my head tries to clear. Sharp and keen and cool. No distraction.

The moonlight drowns the color out of the world.

When I get out of the vehicle, I notice Loren and Atara lurking.

I promised her a win. She shall have it. My prize is something else.

One of the dogs barks. A second chimes in, until all three bark and howl. They sing a wild song to the treeline.

I take one more breath. Washing Ellyn Macanthos out of my mind.

Tonight, I hunt again. And hope the trails aren't too cold.


	24. Howl

_howl_

_-to emit a loud sustained doleful sound characteristic of members of the dog family_

_-to cry out loudly and without restraint under strong impulse (such as pain, grief, or amusement)_

_-to go on a spree or rampage_

* * *

**_T_** hrough clouds and emitting grey light, we are blood rushing expectedly and bodies ready to prowl. Three dogs, four Vipers.

Except for my father, none of the older members is to be found in the small opening besides the road and below the trees.

"Where is your father?" I ask.

Atara is the one answering.

In moments like this, I am reminded we are very much just mirror images apart from each other. The same small body clad in black, hair up, tied tightly. She is younger, of course. She misses the small marks that freckle my skin and the language her shoulders and green eyes speak is different too. More pretty. Something that doesn't matter in the darkness of a hunt.

"Couldn't make it, and Calpurnia was with her family."

"Father said he was sure I would win either way."

Loren shrugs. I want to smash my hand in his face and wipe the nonchalant smugness away.

Instead, we just stare at each other. Something in the way his eyes wander over me isn't to my liking at all. As if I am not a person, just a chair with a broken leg he can't believe someone would place here.

Atara just waits, black-clad legs shifting, and I know she thinks about what I promised her.

 _"_ A chance of some rules," My father suddenly says, words cutting through my hungry glare and burning stomach. "The target is moving tonight. To make it more interesting."

To make it more time consuming for me, he means. I turn my head away from Loren before I just take him out here and spare us all the trouble.

"You may use any animal you want. Not only the dogs," he continues.

"Fair enough," Atara notes.

"Incapacitation and no severe injuries, that stays the same. "He pushes one hand through his hair. "The faster the winner, the faster we can go home."

Loren narrows his eyes. "That is not a rule."

"No," My father huffs out an amused puff of air. "That is just me talking after being chased around meetings for the whole day and the others neglecting their duty."

I make a low amused sound.

We give each other a long look. Something precious and frail breaks and disappears whenever my father looks at me for too long. _Power and strength, Lord Viper._

I feel almost sorry he will have to wait a while for us to return.

"I take-" Loren starts.

My father raises his hand. The gesture is so abrupt it catches all our eyes.

"My daughter gets the first pick tonight."

I could almost feel warmed with too much gratitude and emotions.

"Thank you," I bow my head to him."But that won't be necessary. Let them have it."

Loren goes with the dog he won with, of course. Still the bigger brother, battle scar just trots over compliant.

To my surprise, this time Atara takes the runt, and I am left with One Ear.

"Ready," My father signals after the dogs have taken in a hint of a scent from a scrap of fabric. "Assume your position. Go."

And with that, Loren flies along the treeline. Pale skin and ghostly long steps making him almost a blur, he disappears without looking back.

Atara is second, pondering. She gives me one long glance, a question. I only nod once.

One Ear and I bolt after them into the darkness.

I try to be fast but silent, feet setting on safe ground, leaping over a tree knot half-hidden in the ground set like a trap.

We hear the panting of a dog, paws over the soft ground, a tail twirling. A two-legged body rushing through leaves and brushing over branches and along tree bark.

The sounds of the other two contesters disappear for a moment.

Instead of directly pursuing the trail and Loren, I will follow up, move into the direction the small reflection of light has drawn me to first.

I can catch them fast enough. If one of them gets there, the other will have followed and they will exhaust each other a bit. But Atara has a clear advantage. All those times with birds have made her more prone to any creature that may circle around at night here, and she will be sure to use it.

One Ear pushes his moving nose against the ground. A million scents I am unable to comprehend almost appear visible in front of my inner eyes.

It is like a melody composed by a something older than me, every whiff a string from an orchestra. The dog takes a long sniff, moving around. The excitement fills his muscles along with mine as he separates the smells. I untangle them slow.

The ones the animals have left are fresh and strong. Alive.

A fainter, older one is speaking of anything on two legs.

He smells me, old and new.

The dog's mind makes something familiar out of my scent. I am a friend, a member of his little pack. I smile a little.

He smells an old note of his sister too, where we waited in the bushes before Loren disturbed me.

The ground is a bit flat and there could have been prints in the earth hidden behind moss once upon a set of rain and too much time passed.

One Ear follows to one side. Nose moving rapidly. He pushes his destroyed ear against his head. Returns.

The trail is cold as it can be. It moves in circles but does not get anywhere. It stops pointing away from the makeshift cobble road and dirt that build the road. It points into another direction altogether. I try to mark it on the map in my head to return.

Disappointment grips my body, makes a low hiss escape my lips before they tightly pull together.

I can't accept this defeat.

Whirling up dirt and leaves, I pull at the dog until he turns away from the mess.

A low, whimpering sound escapes him, drawing chaps back.

"Not your fault," I assure him, giving him a scratch behind his ears.

He leans his massive head into my hand a moment. We move on.

Father preaches about cold trails. I hate it when he is right. But I still can take another route down towards the village. It is a stretch to walk by. But what exactly do I have?

Loren and Atara must still be busy. I hear loud rummaging in the woods.

An owl hoots. Feathers whisper through the night. A million invisible eyes creep over me. I feel watched. But I still continue on.

I can't remember I ever was overwhelmed by any kind of smell. The orchestra has changed pace, and One Ear tries to separate all the scents badly. Dust and dirt, mud and water, and so many sweating, two-legged bodies. I am all alone. I should have come in some disguise. Now, it is too late for that. It is a good thing the black clothes and tied up hair look at least from a distance somewhat similar to a uniform.

I see what the boy told me now, even on the outskirts of the village. Structures built like that probably deserve this kind of name. Stilts.

At this rate of darkness and in the night, most lights are dim, and it is not as if they have much anyway. I drag myself through the heat that is still gathering in the night air around me.

Suddenly I think about Queenstrial again. It feels a little like a riddle and I can see why anyone would have been intrigued. Samson is good at distracting me from things, and his warnings and threats clouded my interest back then.

Now though, as my mind wanders over to One Ear and back, not just a woman and a dog but a silver Lady and a killer, my thoughts change and warp.

We are walking between poor build structures and rubble, not very far as of now, invisible still. The woods make a sound behind me, clicking, clanking, lurking.

Every bit of past and all the events comprise into the beginning of a bitter joke.

_A girl dressed as a servant, seemingly Red, drops by accident into the Spiral Garden to unleash a lightning strike..._

_A woman with a petty streak and a penchant for bugs and insects marries a mind reader..._

What a start. But what IS the punchline?

I should most likely try and investigate. I need to find anything. Interrogation is not my strongest suit. But all in all, I am still not too bad.

_How about we start with a quick look at that family? Or maybe..._

"What do you think you are doing?"

Calpurnia is a shadow between rubble and dirt, half-hidden behind the structure of a poor building and remaining trees thinned out.

I stare at her as if she is just a manifestation of my mind, a ghastly ghost.

The owl makes another sound again and appears on a branch, eyes blinking, reflecting a bit of light and making them glow yellow, head moving in fast motion, spinning around.

One Ear moves below my waist and legs, bristling fur.

"I knew it was suspicious you weren't there to drag me down and give Loren a boost."

"Back. Off." She advises me sharply, voice low. "And maybe I won't tell your father you are trying to ruin things again with your own little investigations. We always have strict instructions to stay off regarding that girl. And her supposed family. Whatever you plan, it wouldn't work anyway."

I knew as much. But I didn't think she would actually try to stop me.

I stare at her, narrow my eyes. "Are you the moving target or just spying on me?"

Her thin smile is a promise. "Catch me and find out. Or do you want to give the win away again? Atara can't beat me and Loren at the same time. Prove me you aren't just a failed girl on a trip towards her death."

And with that, she disappears. A flurry of feathers, a high pitched sound, as the owl lifts into the sky, wings pounding.

One Ear growls low. His ears tilt, his paws are half lifted, half ready to jump into every kind of direction I send him.

_I'll return. I'll make her pay, I will win for Atara, and then I return and I will dissect everything._

Thoughts, words, nothing substantial. Is that how I trick myself?

It doesn't matter now. My frustration unloads with a tug on my control over the dog and every living being I find around me in the dust.

Bugs flee and scurry. A bird in the trees flutters once.

One Ear barks and yelps. He lifts his grey and brown-furred head and serenades the anger and attack for me.

Far beyond my sight the other dogs answer.

I run.

As fast as my boots can they carry me over the ground. Crunching sounds, heavy breaths, I jump, leap, and I will catch the old snake. And I will make her pay for disturbing me.

Atara is the first in my line of sight.

Loren is second.

No Calpurnia yet.

The dogs are a tumbling mess, and at the same time, I can see and hear the wild flurry of creatures with wings somewhere over our heads biting into each other.

"He is mine," I tell her. All she does is back off. I take that as agreement.

"Loren Viper, I challenge you," I sneer at him.

Sweat on his brow, Loren barely has time to react . One Ear leaps right up at his arm and the sudden weight and pain drags him down. I can hear him scream, a disturbing sound of surprise and blood.

Battle Scar lets go of the runt and changes paths, jumping at his brother instead.

The dogs tangle again and Loren is free from the dagger teeth, face a grimace.

Loren is taller than us women. He flings himself at me now, pale hands attacking, something silvery shimmering.

The knife slashes through the air. It cuts right through my sleeve, leaves a trail of hot pain on my forearm when I try to block whatever comes for me.

A low hiss leaves my mouth, pain mixed with surprise.

He'd have probably used that knife on his sister too if I had given him a chance.

He slashes at me again. I move back a step. The sirring sound of metal sings in the air. This time the cut is not as deep. It still sinks into me. Time to get that knife and carve something into him.

How I wish I could simply shoot him and be done.

Loren is not a particular skilled fighter. At least not with this sharp knife. I would wager it is a new addition, some little gift.

My mental leash pulls at the dogs as their teeth sink into each others soft spots, flesh ripping.

I bring distance between us as best as I can. Everytime he lunges forward like a cobra striking, a fast flash of energy, I dance to his side.

If someone knows a thing about mistakes , it would be me. Bad impulse control and anger sometimes lets you do reckless things, provocations.

Now, I wait for Loren to make it.

It doesn't take long. The next time he lounges, the next time he stabs at me, I grip his arm, and I twist it hard, bend it, with all the force my body has to muster.

We tumble over each other the same as the dogs.

My hand forms a fist. Then it smashes with force into his face.

My knuckles burn under the impact and sensation of pain. His nose makes a crushing sound, blood spraying over leaves and trickling down his pale neck.

With a low whimper, Loren Viper goes down.

The knife is shimmering a few feet away on the ground.

A dark boot steps next to it. Then Atara picks it up, stares at the metal that has tasted my blood. The pain makes my sight blurry by now. Two cuts on my arms and one on my lower abdomen, thankfully missing anything vital, as it seems. But I bleed.

"Help me," he hisses , eyes desperate. "Help me, Tara."

In the moonlit forest floor, Atara shakes her head and takes a swaggering step back.

"A challenge is a fight for two." I hiss at him, unleashing my frustration and anger at him. "Just yield."

He tries to fight me again, but my legs don't buckle as I push him down. They are iron manacles holding tightly to his sides.

I don't offer him to yield anymore.

I hit him again.

He takes one long breath.

One more hit, ruining his pretty face with all my force, leaving a bloody mess as I hit him with all I have. His eyes are rolling in the back of his head.

His bones bruise and break and crack under my hands, and excruxiating anger and pain is everything in my bloodstream. He barely gets to breathe anymore, cut off, miserable choking sounds.

Atara's arms stop me and the dogs from a kill.

"It's enough," Atara holds me tightly, gripping my ruined arm and destroyed hand , smeared with silver blood from both Loren and me. "He lost. It's enough. He is incapitated, Daliah."

My hurt body flinches under her touch. I get up.

"Next is Calpurnia." I mutter.

My cousin's head tilts slightly. "She is here?"

I make a sound that is barely a chuckle. My hands are shaking. "Oh yes."

"Let's get her, then."

Atara stretches her arms out. Her eyes half close.

In two long, bleeding blinks, the forest seems to change around us as everything that has wings starts to move at a rapid speed and chattering noise.

The dogs growl and limp besides us. Loren is just half unconscious and unmoving on the ground.

* * *

The house is silent at my disappointed, tired return.

I leave dirt all over the hall, drag my boots forward.

"Lady Viper?"

I barely see the boy beside the staircase, a shrunken figure. My eyes blink senseless.

Not what I expected. Not what I need. _Nothing ever goes as planned, does it?_

All I earn is the defeat and the wounds Calpurnia and Loren have left over my body.

I only limp past him.

It is cold inside the bathroom.

The water is cold too, and my feet almost stumble again.

My face twists into a grimace. I peel myself out of my shirt, the wrangled mess of greyish tinted prints left and the wounds of a knife cutting into my skin, from my ribcage to my shoulder. My arms have taken the worst.

In the mirror under the sparking white lights, my face is a pale horror with wild black hair , cheeks splashed with brown earth and silver blood. I am like some mythical creature of the hunt, leaving traces of the forest in this bright and clean house.

Scent stretches fingers over my body and face when I take a breath that makes my ribcage hurt. One salty sweat and blood, just myself, and the sharp one that has branded in my brain by now.

Attacking someone that is asleep or unconscious, as I have learned, is the easiest way. It is why we look for weakness and vulnerability.

When there is a pair of cool, thin fingers creeping over my spine, I want to claw and kick. My muscles tense and flex underneath my skin, nothing happens. I just breathe low. Everything in my head spins.

My body is one sack of bones and meat, slumped together in front of the sink.

My knuckles burn when they grip harder onto the sink, I look down at the torn skin tissue. Water splashes over the edge, rising heat and warming.

"I could have killed all of them," I explain to him. My voice is barely a whisper. "I could have won. And I just let Atara have the glory, as I promised. And then I had to back off. My efforts never take frutuition."

The mirror is finely layered with the fog steaming from the silvery faucet. I can see his pale eyes reflected, body brushing behind me.

His voice is a shudder of life in my own small, drowsy world. "See now why I call you pathetic, widow?"

His hands draw patterns over the dried blood on me, just another mark and mockery.

I want to laugh and cry and curl together. But I am unable to do any of it. Even with all that wounds. Even with this not working out. I can't. I can't. I lean on the sink, stare at the hot water and feel the shaking tiredness.


	25. Lightning Bolt

_lightning bolt_

_-eye-opener, something surprising and revealing_

* * *

**_I_** n morning comes a new dawn, a new piece of my life. My time is running out. My sleep was restless and my body still buckles and screams at me when my mouth stays silent.

Grey open wounds and ripped knuckles are showing on my bare hands. I halfway think about wearing gloves again. But this is just the leftover of my rampage. I beat Loren Viper's face to mush. It is not much. It doesn't mean anything to anyone but the two of us and the rest of the family.

I move fast in a loosely tied robe, in desperate gurgling pain from my wounds and hunger in my stomach.

The spider has shed its exoskeleton in its cage. The boy stares at it before he looks at me, eyes moving over my naked clavicle. There is the slightest blush of pink rising.

"You must be tired of cleaning up the blood I drag through the house," My mouth curls into a laconic little smile.

"It is my job." He stares at the spider's empty shell, the molt it has closed and left behind. Still freshly skinned, it is vulnerable.

"And you're doing it well enough."

"Can I do anything else, Lady Viper?"

"No," I close my eyes in the light that hurts behind my temple. "I need a moment for myself. And then I need to get back to the usual schedule anyway."

Or something that resembles them.

I normally keep my distance from certain aspects of my impossible goal's schedule. Because I wouldn't want to be controlled by another kind of ability that turns your whole self against you. The images of Samson rummaging through me are enough, I don't need to be commanded and interrogated without the ability to fight it.

Now, though, I stand still in some part of the palace I would rather not be or caught in. As good and well hidden as I can. Inconspicuous, really.

Perhaps except for the fact of the person being on watch just the hint of a run away.  
Oh, yes, I almost forgot Lucas Samos. Personal on the watch of the Lady inside.  
The spider tugs on my senses. I don't fully commit, I command and guide as best as I can though.

He hasn't seen me. That is probably why hasn't reacted. I want to keep it that way. His silvery gray head disappears when I move back just the tiniest bit.

_I must be very desperate._

My poor aching body and my shivering pulse only confirm that.

The spider finds its mark. It moves over him, and it slips through the door. The crack is big enough to fit in.

I try to blink and make sense, let it take in the two people inside the room.

Ah, as I thought, whatever lecture and lesson, there is the singer, Jacos, and there is my target.

I wish I could have sent my more advanced eye, but I fear the big hairy legs would have been found easier.

And so the pinpoint small black creature tries its best to adjust and see.

It studies the small frame of the girl. Her hand when it stretches out. And then the spider flurries in natural, instinctual panic, something I do not control, something in the air gets caught on the sensible parts of its body and with a bright snap, energy springs to life in electricity.

The spider is still under my control, but it wants to hide. With a jolt and the smallest flash of brightness, the energy splinters. A small amount flurries and flings around and it hits a part of the floor. It burns and sizzles, dies. Too close.

I zip out of the connection like a rabbit running for its life. Rip the cord and manage to hold my body upright.  
My head is dizzy with cackling energy bolts, dancing in front of my eyes. It feels like I glared into the bright sun too long.

My lungs are desperately seeking air.

At the Queenstrial everything in the Spiral Gardens went down so fast. Now I try to remember, not the way I laughed but the way she tumbled down to Evangeline's boots and the lightning hit.

Appeared straight of nowhere.

Out of nowhere.

Just as now.

Out of nowhere...

That can't be, can it? Is this possible? Everything I remember about silver houses and abilities, everything about limitations, about the way we have to keep our surroundings in check to gain an advantage...There is no out of nowhere. Nymphs control the existing water. I control close animals, I can't get into humans. We all have that elemental manipulation with a disadvantage.

My thoughts race, my pulse flutters.

The Irals knew there was something. It made them suspicious. Grew up in a Red Village and suddenly miraculously gets back? Oh no.

Then the notes of the maid mix with it.

And I remember one line, very clear, even though I am not sure why.

An exorbitant amount of makeup. Almost...

I shake my head again, try to untangle my thoughts.

Suddenly, and without any straight reason, the face of the red boy flashes before my eyes, a pink blush on skin, showing the color hidden in veins underneath.

Almost enough to cover a girl from head to toe to conceal that she is not pale blooded underneath.

No.

My hands claw at each other. Everything in me itches and moves nervous, excited, frustrated.

Can that be? It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense with the way we live and are taught at all. Red Blood has no power. It has nothing. It serves. Silvers are superior.

I bite the inside of my mouth hard. The flesh produces a grinding sound underneath. The longer I keep doing it, the more I feel some numb pain.

It is more than I have asked for. My theory still has very little to no consistent evidence backing it up.

But maybe it is for the best to share it.

I could tell Evangeline. I could run through these halls like the madwoman I am and I could find her. Or her mother. I tell Larentia everything I see. I told her I was looking for a purple butterfly.

How would they react?

Or I could return to my father. Let him belittle and ridicule me because he wouldn't believe it anyway. Dismiss me.

My body snaps up when I try to calm down. Taking two breaths, long, deep, I try to collect myself.

I wanted to tell Ara something to trade for, didn't I? This is it. Whatever my wild guesses bring. They are at least interesting enough so she could be listening.

* * *

Finding Sonya Iral is not hard at all. Catching her attention is not hard either. Finding a moment to talk to alone, though, has ist difficulties.

The spider creeps right up to the corner of her vision, lingering in a corner, safe for now. Patient. The camera above ist body doesn't see it.  
She moves around the corner, blurry shining dress and quick feet.

The spider follows. It reaches the ground and moves over to her as she stands still.

It moves over her shoe, climbs over the hem of her dress. It rolls ist long legs and hairy body over the fine fabric and moves upwards. She stares at it but doesn't bat it away with her sharp nails. Instead, she waits. She waits until the spider has made ist way up her waist and torso until she stretches her arm out, fingers now holding onto the lower body and abdomen.

Her hands are almost soft, very careful. Not friendly or experienced. But she does not try to hurt the spider.

"I almost stepped on you," Her voice is a vibrating sound through the hairs on the spider. "I warned you, Lady Viper. But I guess this means you want the attention."

The leg taps once, almost akin to an agreement if a spider is able to display that.

"My grandmother is very busy today," Sonya whispers. The spider huddles up her palm, following the lines along with it, tickling and alert. Eyes adjust to her head moving slightly, a long streak of curling dark hair over dark skin. "But I may be able to arrange a meeting."

The spider taps again.

"Good. I'm curious about what you want. Or offer?"

Another tap.

Her manicured nail and smooth finger strokes over the back of the spider once. Then she sets it down.

The spider flies over the tiles, leaps over a reflective surface of smooth and waste space.

My own body gets in motion again. My heels hack, my legs stomp almost. I feel watched, hairs on my neck standing up.

My spider, still on a leash, gets drawn towards me. We meet halfway on a floor that leans towards the big doors of the ballroom. A room usually used to celebrate and remember, now almost getting ready to hold in the ball that marks the end of this time.

How fitting. My time here is running so low as much as everyone else.

Fingers shaking, I pick the spider up. It rests on the curve of my neck beside my hair, just below my ear. Tickles me.

I should continue on with my day as usual. I should find Atara and hide behind my duty for her. Talk to her and Heron, let crude jokes be made. Stay away from someone that could read my mind.

I play it safe. And I need to stay calm.

A voice pulls me out of my head. It makes my limbs freeze moving.

"Lady Viper," I am addressed, from somewhere behind my back.

With a quick glance, I turn around and try to find my composure.

Wherever the prince suddenly has appeared from. I haven't seen him coming.

"What can I do for you?" I ask Maven Calore. Even though I want nothing more than really just get somewhere to hide, senses fleeing into excuses and apologies.

His blue eyes look at me very closely.

"I was looking for you. Do you have a moment to talk?" He asks.


	26. Bouquet

_bouquet_

_-flowers picked and fastened together in a bunch_

_\- compliment  
_

_\- distinctive and characteristic fragrance (as of wine)  
_

_-subtle aroma or quality (as of an artistic performance)_

* * *

_**D** ear Cousin,_

_When you feed an animal it will naturally take all of it, it will take enough to have a full belly. It won't ask. It devours dead or alive when it is hungry.  
My uncle never gives the dogs enough. They stay irritated and angry for him, coupled with his own will._

_I asked myself before: How loyal are hungry dogs?  
Do you believe they would hurt him and maybe even eat him if they had the chance? I like to imagine they'd hurt him badly if he didn't hold them together at all times and drilled them so well._

_I believe the principle of hungry animals can be applied to us too. Every single one of us on court is just one open mouth.  
Some have sharp, long teeth. Some have fangs. Some have beaks. Some have no natural weaponry but they found a way to create their own system of threat and reward. And some are simply toothless behind their charades._

_I guess if you feed them, you can easily find out which one is lethal and which one is not. And maybe, depending on what you feed them, you can even just pretend they aren't dangerous for now._

_We have a clear advantage over the likes of a snake or even a dog. We choose the company we need. Because we are liars._

_Yes, I know how that sounds. But I only say the truth today._

_Not every lie needs to be a malicious one. Lies are like promises. They harm and protect the bearer of the words as much as the recipient._

_Does this sound like a general need to underly my principles? The sad truth is that I still don't really have principles. Work with what you have is basic advice._

_I made a promise to your daughter to protect the family. And I don't turn my back on you. I simply made some other unlikely promise to someone and received one in return. You wouldn't believe me anymore when I tried to tell you about it._

_I guess I am just one very greedy person haunted by headaches and tiredness. My marks are bruises, and I will wear them as long as I still have an ounce of fighting spirit inside my chest.  
_

_I had some very interesting meetings during the last days.  
I gave up on the butterfly for the obvious reason that I am too old and simply not fit to wear it. Ara doesn't mention it anymore. At least we had a very interesting meeting in the evening. She was rather busy, and I caught her halfway in between talks and preparations with her extended family and her granddaughter._

_Sonya's cousin called me beautiful. Can you imagine? I couldn't help but start laughing. A diplomat at words and profession. No one except you or my father have ever told me I was beautiful or pretty, and I don't care about flattery that is easily just that. My first husband called me a bat on several occasions. No one would think I am remotely pretty. Especially when my hands are ripped open and I wear a sweaty high collar._

_Will I see you at the ball? I see you so rarely I would hope to meet. Imagine, I am still a perfect dancer. Not too sure about Samson's skills, but I make do with what I have. Maybe teach him a trick or two if he is willing to listen. It is the first real event we attend together since we married. It would help to see a face I dearly miss.  
_

__But then again I can understand why you would not want to push in the frontline of this hornets' nest._ Which reminds me that you'll laugh at the idea I have for my jewelry on that evening. At least your daughter appreciates my stinging jewelry as much as you do._

_The scorpion, by the way, is fine. It is my most prized possession. Samson is still not used to living with all the crawling legs.  
_

_But funny enough, the snakes irritate him the most, I believe, just because I let them roam through the house, and so the servants and he are never sure they aren't hiding somewhere. One of them hid in a kitchen cupboard and they made a ruckus I could hear even in my own room._

_Luckily I have ONE decent servant when it comes to handling animals. Grown men tremble and a 14-year-old boy simply puts his hands around the snake and lifts it up, imagine my amusement. A natural, really, even though he is still just scruffy and Red.  
_

_Samson also almost stepped on one of my spiders hiding in the bathroom. I can't help some small laugh every time I give him a cautionary moment. All in all, though, he is regarding them with minimal interest despite his discomfort. And why wouldn't he? He knows me by now. He knows what I prefer, and he knows what I hate. He can calculate I would never simply harm them or him._

_It stands as it falls. I am your loyal servant. You were like a mother and a sister to me when I had neither my whole youth. You remember my mother well enough to know she is more of a reserved person than anything else. It hasn't changed. What did she ever give me? A silly song about dancing mice on a violin and summers where we hid together. Whatever happens, be sure I would never willingly harm you or the ones close to you._

_Yours truly,_

_Daliah_

My neck cracks when I lean back on my chair, dry eyes blinking into the light falling through the sliver of an open curtain.

I can't send it. Not now.

It is too much.

With two hasty moves, I take the paper into my hands and rip it. The sound of breaking paper is as loud as a scream in the silence. I rip it into shreds and pieces so tiny that no one can recover it, no matter how skilled or practiced at it.

I stare at the petal fanned greenery on my desk. One single flower, long stem standing tall in the crystal flask.

It feels almost like a silent joke. A gift, maybe, but one I don't trust, don't like, and don't want.

I am pretty sure only one person in the house has access to getting any kind of flower.

You'd expect a flower as big and colorful to have a smell.

Truth be told, it almost smells like nothing. There is no rich fragrant flying through the air. Not sweet. Nothing.

I have heard enough flower jokes in my life since my name is just a variation of a kind of flower. And I never liked it. I never liked flowers the same.

It isn't black. There are no black dahlias, I know that much. Black dahlias are deep burgundy, soaked in the color so richly that it seems almost tar dipped.

The color is fluid and dark, just slightly brighter colored and indicating that truth next to the stems.

Heron has educated me this summer about flowers sometimes- she has her own kind of chatter mouth to Atara when they don't mock and spread rumors. I mostly blanked out on it, because I hate beautiful and withering things with an ardor that only reaches a more distinct high as it comes to my resigned enemies and all the bad talk. Black dahlias only have stuck a little because of the obvious connection.

Flowers speak their own language, just the same as animals. But I do have no idea what a black dahlia conveys. Maybe I need to ask her. I sure will have the chance today. And tomorrow...Well.

_Who would care about flowers with what is bound to come tomorrow?_

My ripped knuckles and small hands shake slightly with excitement and fear.

I needed some time to collect me after myself theorizing about a girl getting concealed in make up.

And after my talk with Maven Calore...

I swallow visibly on the knot forming in my throat and I am glad no one can see. My hands pound with my pulse and hurt.

That boy has a talent for words, that much is sure.

I have been bought by a promise and convinced by a blue-eyed prince with shadows eating his face, a quiet conversation in between the flecks of light falling through a window, a few words that made me back up from something that I could have told Ara.

Something that could shake my own belief it was really true. Something that could make me consider the worth of the morals and ethics I was taught, everyone is taught.

Something dangerous.

I barely want to think about it. Red Blood with Power. What can that do to the system? Especially with the recent events? Red rebels and now this? It is reasonable to hide it.

I couldn't give it to Ara.

Instead, I have given her something else. Something small, but reliable. Observations, a small but interesting enough feed of words.

I am keeping this, and in return, I made a deal. I still owed him for calling Samson off anyway, and the reward is big and sweet and everything I want since I have entered the palace and witnessed a stone-faced woman study me with disgust.

I can see what the whisper Queen may expect from me now. Even though I am not sure how closely she operates with her son. But she would surely know. Her mind in my head watching made me have the smallest discomfort, but it was nothing that hurt me as much as the brute force as Samson. Subtlety, as Maven said when he found me broken in the grass, is not one of his strengths. I would wager I know as much or even more than him. But that is not the best part of my latest partnership and agreement. Samson thinks he can lead this dance. He has no clue he won't by tomorrow.

That makes me smile a bit.

I hide the scraps of paper and take my leave. 

* * *

"Well, well," I take the liberty to appear wherever I please today. Simply because my days aren't over. Or counted. They will rise gloriously.

Of course, I can't surprise a girl that can genuinely manipulate light. A shadow, and a very pretty one knowing exactly about that talent and the flattering way to present herself.

Flowery, silky, exposed skin. Her red hair is a flicker between our black.  
I can almost smell the difference between us. I am as always rigid and harsh in comparison, thin body hidden behind my stiff sleeves, layers, high collars and tied up hair.

"Evangeline isn't-" She starts, but I shake my head, and she stops because she realizes I have come for her today.

"Congratulations on marrying into the family soon, Elane," I smile, but not very convincing friendly. I don't pretend I don't know her name anymore. That would just be too unbelievable. And I have pretended that for years anyhow. "As someone married twice now, I thought I should mention it."

Something glimmers in her eyes, but I can't place it. "A marriage with you must be quite the explosive experience after everything people say."

I burst into a bubble of discrediting, mocking laughter, a sound that echoes harshly in the silence between us. "Well, one husband is dead, so I am afraid we can't ask him. But Samson may attest depending on what mood you catch him."

"Not necessary," She declines.

"Good." I take a small breath and sigh. "Just keep an eye on my favorite cousins, will you?"

* * *

"What does a black dahlia mean again," I ask when I have finished my small visit and stroll over the pathway along a part of the garden. Behind that corner there, I nearly fainted and cried, and around the other, platforms moved along to the clapping, and girls competed in a spectacle for a promise of marriage to their houses. "Heron, my darling, remind me?"

The girls are as airy and easy as ever. Loose hair, glittering necklaces, they hold a small distance between us.

Atara scoffs at me. "Since when do YOU care about flowers?"

I just shrug it off. A relevant and understandable puzzled question, followed by raised eyebrows.

Heron leans down. Her finger glides over the ground with an invisible force. Something wakes up under her touch. Green sprouts over the ground. She takes her time until a wild plant wakes up.  
First, a stem, then leaves, and white blooming innocence. Atara just silently watches the call of her greeny friend.

Heron plucks the flower off she has just woken and manipulated into existence, leans up, and puts it into Atara's hair. My cousin just stays still and watches. The flower is sitting right up to one angled side of her head over her ear, a fragile pattern of petals woven into black.

"A black dahlia means betrayal and sadness. If you would have listened you would know I think it fits you too well," Heron explains, moving back again.

"And this?" Atara asks, fingers dawdling above her ear to set the flower straight.

"This one means beauty and friendship."

For the first time in a while, I see Atara not smirk but genuinely smile.

"You two are aware that friendship alone will not get you anywhere in life, aren't you?"

"Well, where are you?" Atara answers, arms crossed.

"On a path leading me to something valuable, I hope." I draw my brows together slightly. "Who needs friends for that?"

"You're really just like your spiders," Heron looks as disgusted and questioning as the day in the arena on a hot friday in august. "Cold blood, and barely a beating heart underneath all the ugly attire."

"I take that as a compliment."


	27. Position

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy just short information. The double chapter has turned into a triple one even though I did cut it, so this may take some more time to trim and get ready, but here is the first part!

_(Heyy just short information. The double chapter has turned into a triple one even though I did cut it, so this may take some more time to trim and get ready, but here is the first part!)_

_position  
_

_-a point of view adopted and held to_

_-social or official rank or status_

_-a situation that confers advantage or preference_

* * *

**_T_** he glass vibrates with whirring aggressive noise, little black and white bodies moving hectic through the empty space behind.

Our faces are mirrored in the large surface.

One is scrawny, thin, flushing pink ears in excitement. Brow puddle eyes flicker over the paperwhite construction behind the see-through barrier.

The other is pale, sleek strands of long black hair tightly pulled back to my head in my usual knot, but that is the only thing that resembles my usual attire.

My dark-painted lips pressed together tightly, eyes are almost blocked with too much black around it.

Every time I watch myself in a mirror and try to prepare myself, my body is marked with bruises. I almost blend out the physical sensations that ripped skin and black and silver kisses of boots, fists, and violent outbursts bring regular.

My arms ache, the skin disappears under the long sleeves reaching in sharp shapes over my knuckles, obsidian colored smooth fabric that fits too well and flatters my slim body with leather. Metal clasps on both sides of my waist tickle me. The chains reach over my hips, hug me with cold, glittering grip, they repeat the constricted pattern over my throat, buried inside my hair. Metal chains tinted green and blue. I wear both Viper and Merandus colors tonight. Choking on on both of them, and unifying them in my live jewelry one could say. A small joke on top of my aesthetic.

"Move back," I say to him, hurt hands under the fabric stretched out slow. "We wouldn't want you to get stung."

My own words make me stop a moment. Strange that for once I mean it when all I do is wish for pain and hurt otherwise.

I tell myself it is because he still holds value for me, be it because I can be sure he'd tell me what happens in this house, for the value of a maid slipping me papers, or simply because no one else would just pick it up fearless but cautious enough.

Why else would I care for him? Functionality, as it is with the dogs, is preferred, and small encouragements and treats only help ensure that.

"They are angry," He mutters against the sounds of the wasps but does as I tell him.

I slowly lean over the glass box, and the sounds get louder, more tense, an alarm and the last warning.

"They are not malicious. Animals never are on their own. Just trying to defend their home," I explain, and my voice sounds almost soft. "And their queen."

In some sense, I am only one of the small creatures behind the glass, ready to sting and hurt and save the cycle of life I have found. The sense of irony doesn't escape me. The letter I wrote to Larentia and never send was stating the same about all of us, and what are we?

Superior predators, all of us, packs of dogs and wolves, nests of wasps and panthers, smooth and silent.

We want to be above anything else. But can we? Can we continue?

I lost a man to war. I was apparently loved by the women in his family and wasted the best and most promising years of my life to try and impress them.

I have no delusions about the state of misery that swells through a conflict between two opposing countries after each other for decades.

I gamble with a lot of revelations as of now.

I am more alone than ever.

But I will make a rise.

It has to pay off, all of this. He promised me it would. Thinking back, that prince's words only push harder into the spirals and twists of my brain the more I think about it.

Really good with words, I recall again, lifting the lid. A swarm of angry sounds and stingers at the ready greets me.

Integrity is such a weird thing. I suppose almost everyone has something to value.

He knew how to get me, and the painstakingly clear approach could be _a checklist_. I can see it very well, but that doesn't mean what was said is less true, less lie, or less agreed on- After all it seems, I do have made promises and I have kept them so far or intend to keep it that way.

Maven Calore knew how to measure what I value, and he knew I owed him anyway.

_Step one. Make sure you know how to handle your opposite, throw in a compliment.  
_

_"You had a promising career," he tells me. "A prodigy. Flawless fighter. I heard you're still extraordinary with animals at your disposal."_

I take a breath and concentrate on all the small, white and black bodies.

_Step two. Obvious truths and sympathy, however real or fake._

_"Some people don't get what they deserve. I know that feeling, that look of disappointment, Lady Viper. And I know you lost everything because of the slander and accusations last year."_

_"I lost a husband and a family even before that," I tell him, arms crossed, a waste of time when I only have a small window to meet Ara and share whatever she is willing to take. " They followed duty and then lost everything to the war. I was trying to be a soldier when I am clearly better at other branches. You ought to know how it is down at the trenches. I am sure they made you go there as well as your brother."  
_

_"They did," His eyes evade me. "And I may understand losing someone better than you would guess."_

_And I believe him when he says that. Because there is a lot of sad, sad stories hidden at the choke of a warzone.  
_

I search through the insects home, stretch my control over them. The whirling big nest behind the glass and under my hands turns soft and meek. They sink down. The sounds swell down to a content little swirl. Meek and mellow, ah yes, buying sympathy.

_Step three, was, I suppose, making a deal. Bargaining._

_"I owe you, name your price," I end this because I want it to be done._

_"Your assistance and discretion would be appreciated. And you get what you want."_

_"What do I want?"_

The queen is as big as a silver coin. She rests on the tip of my index finger, tickles me with her legs, antennas swinging.

The red boy beside me rips me out of my thoughts by shifting his lanky legs, uniform and old trodden boots scraping over the ground.

"It's pretty," he says.

My brows knit together when I smile at the little creature on my finger, moving feet and amber wings twitching over my colorless nail.

"She is," I agree.

I gently put the queen on the top of my hair. A few workers follow and balance over my brow, settling down in a wreath of buzzing bodies vibrating at my scalp on top of the chains.

I let their beings take over me, just a split moment, slipping into them. When I close my eyes the world changes in colors and shapes. It changes in smells and invisible lines singing in the air at the disposal of one fragile wing and shaking stinger. Words and looks are stingers and pincers hurting and ripping and surviving are pivotal.

The boy stares when I open my eyes again.

"You know no one would complain if I just punished you for ogling me," I stop whatever sentimental attack is creeping up that scrawny servant's throat and eyes.

He turns his eyes off as he has learned to do in the first place. "I just realized you will be gone soon, Lady Viper."

True. Everything will be gone after the festivities are over, moving to their respective places in the capital. The thought of returning is as comforting as concerning.

"Hm," Is all I answer.

"I'll miss all the animals."

"Perhaps you're lucky enough to find a decent job that keeps you from being conscripted in a few years. Maybe we will never see each other again, or maybe we will. Next year." _Or you'll be gone, maybe dead. Tomorrow, a few years, here, down at the front, what does it matter._

I have other things to do. More important things.

The steep small staircase is my entrance, my start to go before the curtains open at the ball and the play begins.

To my dismay, my husband has already made his way here.

We differ in color. Where I am dark he seems like some bright hallucination, a blurry fleck of blue and white, leather and thin lips pressed together.

His marble eyes glare up. I graciously glare back as long as I can still express my hatred freely.

The wasps blur in a slow frenzy of anger, antennas twitching once before I control them again.

He just seizes me up and down once, from my throat down to my feet.

Another second he just stares, and I wonder if he plans my gruesome suicide, some accident in which I get beheaded.

He offers his arm.

I narrow my eyes at it a moment, taking a breath that seizes my lungs and brings some movement in me. I smile at Samson, slightly. I don't expect him to return the sentiment of my teeth gritted behind my painted lips, tongue pressing in the crack along.

To my surprise, he does. It's pointed and accentuated with something clean but satisfied, lips moving up a moment.

"Say what you have to say. Tell me I look ugly, I am pathetic, stupid, whatever," I snort. I would hate to underestimate him. Especially since he is so good at keeping himself covered. But I won't let him rain on my parade, my cause or my tasks. And I do know more than he does. All on my own, without the ability to simply read a mind.

"No one can say you don't try to look your part, even if you aren't beautiful." He offers a disingenuous compliment and a fact at once. "You're just my wife tonight, and you even took your time putting on my colors."

"So no soft pet names for me tonight?" I try to act as if that disappoints me.

"I'll only say this, Daliah," My name sounds like a word in a language I have never even heard before out of his mouth. It is foreign and harsh, but he should have used it since the start, and I won't complain he finally does. He still has his arm extended and I still haven't taken it. If I had a choice, I never would.

"You are deadly scared for me being in your mind.  Your head is rotten. I didn't do anything to it. But you will wish I had. "

My chains rip at me with too heavy weight a second. I am alone in my head, alone, and this is my night and my free will.

"I don't expect you to understand anything."

Sweat starts forming on my brow, and something nags on me. But as soon as it comes, it leaves, and I can move on.

Then I just take the arm.

* * *

We are neither early nor too late but right on time. Everything is the same, as it always is and always has been, with all the humming colors and the streaming voices that flutter around us in the palace. I walked down the ballroom just yesterday with a spider in my palm, and beside the lost space being filled with bodies and glittering lights, nothing else catches my eye until I see a lot of green and black.

My family is easy to spot in line to attendance and pay reverence to the royalty. Etiquette is hard to miss and disregard in the streaming cut of our houses.

Atara sees me first, a flurry of venomous green spilling over the smooth polished ground in liquid smooth waves, then her eyes pinpoint and stab over Samson. My father turns too, unobtrusive suit with his viper sigils.

Calpurnia keeps as far away as possible, seemingly occupied with a girl in grey and blue next to Loren. He doesn't look at me, and even though his face is healed and no trace of my rage left, something about his nose seems more crooked and his eyes seem more quiet. No smugness.

My uncle is nowhere to be seen yet.

I crinkle my brow.

How strange. He should be. He should be on the head of it all boasting.

"My lovely family," I stretch out my hurt hands as if I want to embrace them all. In the back of all the sounds, my voice is hoarse and discorded, just like the sounds the wasps make on my head.

Atara keeps a polite distance. When she turns her head I see a tiny flower over her ear.

As always, the vultures stay away.

My father is the only one that dares to move close.

The rough skin of his palm scratches over the painfully painted mask of my face. "You are pretty tonight. I hope you heard it already."

Isn't it sad when your aging father lies at your face to make you feel better and fails?

I huff. The chains on my dress dangle. Everything I wear presses onto me, from the layers of metal, fabric and to something else hidden.

"A word," he then simply says, and something in the way my father and my husband look at each other isn't to my liking. My father is careful and waiting, a quiet planning voice behind closed doors or in discussions. The worst is Samson looks like has expected that, and when the sharp smell of his cologne gets weaker and they silently usher away, I want nothing more than to send my ears and eyes and antennas to find out what is happening.

But I can't. Because now that I am alone, the vultures creep up.

And I do need to at least act some part of it, jsut so I keep myself clean until I know where to go and what to do. Schedules, schedules, always there for me.

"Daliah, don't you look lovely as a couple," Calpurnia can, frankly put, run into the knife Loren cut me with, and I can barely stop myself from expressing distaste.

Strangely, we _are_ punctuating the vibrating vertebrae of life, fangs ripping holes in flesh.

I hate this man since the day he held my hand and pledged himself to me, I hate and fear him since I saw him kill a man, and I am desperately disgusted since he violated my mind and even now makes me have headaches and shakes.

And yet I am sure I have never looked better next to someone. We fit. in the most twisted, warped sense, it is irony and perfect match. The thought is disgusting me to the point of just making my stomach turn and empty it all over his shiny shoes. Or right here over Calpurnia Viper.

"I think Loren needs assistance with something," Atara saves me before I can speak up.

I glare over to where he stands. When he looks back, my mouth curls up, tugging to one side. But the smile dies when I see who the girl is exactly and realize blue and gray is very familiar.

"He came with her," I mutter it only.

Atara brushes a bit of dark hair back. She looks like she wants to roll her eyes at my stupidity and disbelief. "Of course he would if only cause they hate you both. You make people connect."

"Good thing I wear wasps again, I could lose one on the way. Lady Macanthos and the colonel are too close to my taste right now."

Atara shakes her head slightly.

"No one loses anything." If my father looks even more worried coming back, he'll die from sheer sorrow on the floor right now. Hands holding onto each other, he steps beside me to the empty spot Samson has left.

I look around. See too many people, not the ones I was looking for.

A glimpse of smooth-skinned lithe Sonya and then Ara in the middle of her own flock.

And my dearest, my most precious held object of hatred is ehre too, and this time she can't tell me loving me is a mistake, and I just look at her scarred face and uniform and my pulse starts to rush, wings crushing in my veins, buzzing, because I am just as much stinger as my wasps tonight.

My family surrounding me like a toxic green cloud. No sight of my husband.

My father sighs.

"He'll be back later."

For all I care he can fall down a shaft and break his bones. But I know that's not going to happen. So where did he run off instead of following track and buckling?


	28. Danse Macabre

_danse macabre_

_-macabre dance **:** dance of death_

_Note: In the medieval period, the dance macabre was a literary or pictorial representation of a procession or dance of both living and dead figures expressing the medieval allegorical concept of the all-conquering and equalizing power of death._

* * *

**_W_** hen wasps leave their nests, they rely on photographic memory and all their senses to return to it. They fly in arcs and circle, and they use all their small body to gather and leave smell, sight, and sound.

The wasps fly in arcs and circles now as well just as I move along my family for now.

A crown of wasps may catch the attention of some eyes. Two or three missing and getting lost in the air not too much. I am confident some may see them, but most people don't look at chandeliers and into the ceiling when they are surrounded by their opponents and affiliates.

This may be a celebration, but it is still not happy or safe.

You can see it on their faces, row after row after bow after bow. We move in some swarm formation as of now, like always, house first.

Just as the boxes and seating, this is a reveling in hierarchy.

You can see it as to who approaches first and leaves, in the way they move.

I want to be at the front of the rows, and I wish I would never need to bow, but I will, and I will be docile, I will be humble, all the while the wasps prove my actions lies as they buzz angry. At least I lead this family now, at the side of my father. It gives me some small satisfaction I can step in front of my cousins. In front of me, I see Ara again, and I want to follow her very closely. I may have told her nothing of my theories, but now that they have basically proven to be true and I have been bought to stay quiet, I can't imagine a woman with her smarts and experience to not have found the same or more than me. _The Panther_ hasn't survived because she let go and gone defeated. This woman has more secrets and danger in her past than I have blood in my veins or bugs to control.

My eyes pull over her dark-haired form moving like an animal waiting for the right second to attack, careful, and cautious, and I do notice her granddaughter and the way she looks over to her. A moment of admiration, maybe, pride, something small I understand because I was so proud to be a Viper and to be with my cousin once.

My senses pull tightly on the small bodies and hold them in the air, all while my own feet move and the rest of the hive sits all around my chains. It takes concentration. If I wasn't alone in my head and slept through my hurt body and head the last week, who knew how much I would fail and faint right now.

The smallest glimpse of a black and white body disappears above the line of lights.

_A prodigy? We'll see how good I am._

One single, hard thump of my heart makes me feel my ribcage, and I walk and smile and wait, studying the people I will bow too soon enough low.

Being one animos in a group of people with the same blood, I have to be extremely careful. But luckily they are somewhat distracted.

My father holds my arm, just as Samson did when we arrived, but his grip is mellow in comparison. He is pale and sweating under his mask of barely hidden concern. Come to think of it, when was the last time I have seen my uncle? My father always is the one sitting in every small meeting, in every scheduled attached discussion. I saw him prowling through the glass and stone halls with Samos and Provos, and I assume this is the usual approach.

He wasn't at the second chase. He wasn't around before. Come to think of it, the first chase is the last time I have seen him and that was a while ago.

Is he even in the palace right now? And why would he miss something that is supposed to pull in all the people. All the houses. It feels unintentionally disrespectful and I know he wouldn't, even with his bellowing anger.

I look around again. But my uncle is the least of my concerns.

I don't want to waste the time and space I need. I have work to do. And something to observe.

I bow down before our ruling noble blood and Evangeline is the next thing I see, contrasting bright and brilliant to my black eyes and the way the older prince is dressed.

I wear chains. She wears spikes.

And I remember what I promised.

"Dear cousin," I make my smile the brightest I can.

I am the least physical person there ever was, except for violence. I still reach over and touch her hand, and her nails scrape along my palm. We both take a small breath.

She looks better than me in metal. And she doesn't sweat as much as I do right now. I am sure she feels it on my palm. The fleeting touch disappears.

And then there is Maven, that prince that bought me, convincingly so, and his mother.

While my father loses himself in some flattering pale words of the past to King Tiberias a moment, I throw a glance out when I bow.

I believe it is the first time I really see them next to each other. They do bare a strong resemblance, especially considering I am married to another Merandus with the same pale blue eyes. I know the colour of her hair, that bright ashen blond very well, but just the same I see the traces the brothers share from their father's side.

I don't look too long. My father may be a smooth talker, and he may have some more words, but he knows not to stretch our luck in the queue.

There is no recognition. I expected that. I earn a small pointed smile from her when I make a flattering small comment and force my face to a smile that probably looks cold.

And then there is also my unreachable butterfly. She doesn't even look at me, not really. her head is somewhere else, and I don't blame her. I know my deal about acting humble and polite, and who wouldn't hope for it to be over if there is something else entirely to work with through the night?

 _What are you?_ I still ask myself again because, after everything that I have seen the last days and gnawing hard on the pursuit, I am not sure what I see. Purple dressed like the lie of the house she is supposed to be of, the girl is not silver at all and I find it hard to comprehend what that really means.

Too much makeup, the maid wrote, and I see that now, the polished wrapped way of all the layers.

We pass on. I look for Larentia in the amass of people. I do find Ptolemus as a glaring bright form, as much scaling metal as the spikes on his sister's dress. And I do see a red-haired girl close by. Good, at least someone takes my pleas and requests seriously.

One wasp lowers, amber wings shaking, moving with a quiet buzz. I hold onto my father's arms, eyes focusing on nothing in particular, brushing over a few figures as if I watch where I step and don't want to catch attention.

The curled antennas shiver when the wasp slowly glides away from my own peripheral vision.

Three dead people walk the room, one of which I hate with my whole being since we broke into a fight I lost, and two others which create enough vacuum for all my family members to seize an opportunity and perhaps fill it.

My eyes find Loren at the edge of my vision, shrinking next to Elane Haven and Ptolemus.

Well, _not all_ , obviously. You need to have some kind of talent, and vanity isn't going to save your dim head.

Easy to decide which cousin I like better.

Strange...I used to be young, and we used to grow up together. And it doesn't matter anything anymore.

I feel my chest explode with expectations. Give me two more steps through the hall and I can let go of his arm and find a more quiet spot for surveillance.

My father's hand changes the way it grips me, and I fling my head around to him.

"Did Atara tell you she was offered to become part of security for Governor Welle and especially his daughter?"

My eyes dart around, trying to keep track through all the bodies and motions blurring in the bright lights and colors. "No."

"It's a good and safe position," Calpurnia is somewhere in my back and I don't approve of the positioning. "Provided she does well enough."

My cousin doesn't say anything to that, no word of objection. But something int green of her eye glints and I tilt my head slightly.

"Security personnel for a governors daughter," I taste that, like green and yellow jealousy. Not a too bad position.

_I guess I know who put in a word for you to get the job._

"Well, there is your husband again, Daliah." He doesn't sound too happy. "Excuse me a moment."

The yellow taste spreads slow, leaving something sulfury bitter on the tip of my tongue.

It only takes a moment for him to lose us in the conversation and I am left with my cousin.

"I won't take the job," She says, glaring at me.

I say the obvious. "You'd be with your best friend."

"I was offered something else by Laris. People noticed my talent for birds and recon last year. I didn't win a marriage. But I could show off in the month's schedule and make some requests."

So no capital or countryside sipping tea with Heron and having a relaxed security post. But a military base instead. I shouldn't be surprised the bird girl is interested in going truly airborne.

"Did you tell your flowery friend already?" Is all I say instead of any compliment.

Her eyes are somewhere in the distance now, wide open and gone. "Not yet."

"She may never talk to you again if you refuse." I shrug. My face is a small grimace with lips pulled together and eyebrows raised, saying 'I told you, I knew'. Because she refuses to use her friendship for her own gain and so it will just shatter and make her life harder.

Now it is her turn to be indifferent. "She may be pissed. But she will understand why I did it."

I cross my arms, chains pressed in between my waist and palms. "And what's your reasoning?"

Her voice is clear when she answers, chin stuck out. "Because I don't want to end up like you."

I huff. She still dislikes me, and I still don't love her. No matter what has happened the last weeks.

"I want to accomplish something. Something that counts. As much as I love spending time with Heron, being her bodyguard isn't what I consider a career."

"You don't want to be like me," My voice cracks I think about the hollow eyes and scars, the smell of something dragged inside my house that reminds everyone of death, shots, dirt, and blood as soon as it creeps into the nostrils. I remember every bit about them, and I remember the first time I saw a corpse. And it wasn't one I knew, but it was silver and I caused their death.

"You will still be someone else in the end. There are as much glory and success in fighting against Lakelanders as there are dead bodies tossed in a hole. Ask the colonel. She will tell you about her son, if you have forgotten."

 _Dead, dead._ My steps seem to repeat the word like the ricochet of doom when I walk forward, hard and fast, escaping.

* * *

Death. I guess I can't escape it.

I try to, and I try to do my task the best I can while I am at it.

Keep an eye on Iral. Especially on Ara and sneaky Sonya on the arm of her cousin. He called me pretty. He will die tonight. My bad luck streak has caught him too.

_Stop interferences. And receive a reward._

The wasps' eyes are blurred, double images of Ara's sharp dark eyes, her head moving down and forth, and it flies low enough to sense the vibration along the air, the words and movements get processed in my brain to form some sort of sound and words.

It is queen and workers in the air as of now, swirling.

A small, high voice rises over my ear, and when I turn my head I am forced to watch a moment of genuinity.

I have little to no clue about kids. How old are the two? Three? Four? They're pretty dressed little things, I'd say. Clinging to their parents.

I stand very still. then I recognize the husband, at least. The man will be dead at the end of the evening.

All I do know is that this woman will be a widow, and I know how that feels.

Now that I watch the three of them with their big eyes and the way they cling to hands, something inside me cracks. It feels like someone breaks a rib over my lungs a moment. The sharp ends of my hurt ribcage seem to stab the air and strength out of me. I am not sure what that is and what it means. I have never felt anything like this before.

It is like some small inkling of force, a thought that plants right through me. Because family means everything to me, and I know how it is to lose it all.

One of them flutters along with the twins, a second one follows. They stare at them with some significant amount of interest, and when one of them stretches out their hands, I think about the red boy telling me how he will miss all the animals, tender small fingers that just want to hold onto a carapace or fluttering legs.

Innocence is spoiled fast. It gets tainted. This world is undeserving of it, as are the people in it.

The wasps have a mean sting, but they aren't deadly. I bet it still hurts when the buzzing angry black and white bodies sink their stingers into the kids' hands and neck.

It's an image reminding me of the dogs yowling and yelping. A lot of tears, a lot of pain and complaints.

It isn't hard to guess who did it, I stand by close enough. She glares at me with deadly precision. I stick my chin, lift my body.

Her priority as a mother at least is to get the children somewhere quieter and look at how bad my stingers have hurt them.

I can see the way people watch me. A woman that's just hurting others for no reason than entertainment tonight.

I am fine with that.

If I seem brute and hostile, I will be left alone.

A hand rests over the chains on my waist, respectful enough, but still invading my last piece of personal space.

"Almost noble of you," Samson's voice mutters beside me, too close. "To take the blame and hope it changes something. Didn't think you had that in your selfish bones."

Surprising him again, with what small unexpected inkling of a shriveled heart I still posses.

I turn my head to the side but don't look at him, eyes sliding over the bright lights of chandeliers and colorful decorations peppered with my wasps. "I don't like children that much, they're like unruly puppies that don't listen to your commands, so it's only half noble and half petty. Where have you been?"

A brush of air and promises against the bare skin of my neck, where the armor of my chains and obsidian fabric part and reveal a small gap inform me he hasn't moved at all. I could bite him when I bend backward, neck cracking low and our noses almost brush, that's how he lingers.

"You won't tell me, will you?"

One side of his face lifts up, pointed again, and it reminds me of the whisper Queen's smile earlier, as if to say "Why would I?" He considers my questions a waste of time.

"I had to make sure some business upstairs went by, and also your father is very demanding of my help tonight."

"Since I am your wife tonight, I suppose you want a dance?"

Even with all my unruly behavior hurting children and stinging wasps watching, I still have to keep some sort of behavior and etiquette.

I stretch out my hand.

"Or are you not in the mood?" I am graciously throwing him a bone. He takes it as an offense, I am sure.

I am about to take my wavering fingers away. I am not keen on touching him ever anyway.

„I shouldn't let a chance to lead go to waste if you offer."

There is that brimming in his sharp face again, that arrogant vicious need for dominance.

I almost smile.

He thinks he can lead.

His hands are always cold to the touch, somehow, with a pulse hiding underneath that I can feel when our fingers move over each other. Not exactly the most friendly offering of touches anyway, it always feels wrong, and if I was not close to vomit and loose it, heart already fluttering, I would probably now get to this point.

But no more hesitation. He won't let go and back off. We move over, wade through the crowd to join in on the next set of dancers.

The mechanical blaring of music reminds me of ants marching over a table, a memory of a silver-haired girl and her older cousin.

I catch a glimpse of my cousins.

There is, of course, other pairs that have opened on the dancefloor. The more important , the younger, the more beautiful, I can list endlessly why I have little interest or respect or why I believe every time I move life snatches something from under my feet.

And I catch a very easy glance on a purple dressed girl being whirled up and around.

 _They dance for me because I can make them._ I said about the bowing ants. _They are expandable._

"Not too long now," I say quietly, hiding my face as good as possible in the arched way we start to move. "You know it, don't you, whisper?"

"If only you could read thoughts. Or let me in your head so we may be sharing some mutual information. Oh, by the way." His hand is laced through the chains on my waist, half-covering them, half-hidden tips almost on my skin. "Clever of you wearing so much metal. If I didn't know better," His voice is barely audible, and his lips don't move too much. "I would say you're hiding something."

I let him lead, a moment, just for now, providing the tempo, testing. Even if I hate he knows what I hide under the metal and dress just in case. I can feel the weight of my dress pulling me down along with the chains. I feel the weight dragging me down until my heels, a small irritation that rubs over my legs and the slung around knife I have taken from Loren as a gift and souvenir after beating him half dead.

"I am just careful," I finally decide to answer. "And don't get all meek, it doesn't suit you."

Our dance is more than two bodies flowing together. We fight our own private war. I push a little, and he answers with a squeeze of his hand. Our feet sweep along the floor to the beating soul of the music, mechanical over the marble.

"You think you know it all. That is amusing to me."

He is a demanding partner. Unsurprisingly I am not willing to give up anything to him.

 _Yield_ , his hands say. _Yield_ , his eyes repeat.

I turn my head away, abruptly, neck moving away from his face. The collar of the chains tightens around my throat. He grips my hand harder and I make a small step to the side as if I could and want to simply run away and evade him.

I am half a foot away, on his outstretched arm. He pulls me back into our fight. Our bodies brush each other. I feel the warmth and our breaths, heaving under silk and leather, blood rushing. Something in me cringes and wants to break the contact.

He whirls me around. My skirt flutters. Poor wasps, desperately clinging to me, disorientated.

The world turns to some strange blur. I think about the faces of the children again, and suddenly I remember something else. It's as if the world turns from the memory of ants straight to the image of every figure on the dancefloor becoming a piece on a crib mobile, and I want to puke, even more, stomach-turning violently.

Instead of a lullaby, this is another kind of last dance.

As soon as it ends I pry away from Samson's hands and try to find my composure again.

My wasps have left traces along with the people they watch by now.

I take a breath and escape into one for a moment. The blurry sight spins, but it is different from the dancing. Instead of feeling sick, I can see the invisible trace of the pheromones the single members of the hive have left. Some are brightly suggesting danger, others are coming from the queen and they tell the story of pursuit.

I sort through it, my own orchestra overtaking sounds of all the bodies squeezed in the space of the ballroom that usually feels so big.

The music leaves me and the new world around me forms through the smell that lures.

Ara hasn't yet made a move. Maybe she won't tonight. She is careful. But what does that matter anymore? I find Ellyn Macanthos easily. One of my wasps flattens and glides over her easily.

Making sure at least some pieces are in position, I could argue, but it is all but me wanting to see her smiling face with the gruff scar before she falls.


	29. Rive

_rive_

_-to wrench open or tear apart or to pieces_

_-to become split_

_-fracture_

* * *

**_T_** ime is a strange construct warped by perception.

As the music crawls over the ground like fog and heels and boots echo through the broad room and bellow in swift swirls up until the alcoves, my own orchestra takes the flight as intended on their way to the colonel and everything seems to move slow, so slow.

I didn't exactly get a perfect schedule and plan for what is to happen. Even with the deal, I wouldn't expect complete transparency, just the hints to let me see what I have to see and stop what I can.

I was told about three dead people, a reassurance that it will be over fast, and that I can make a better profit of being quiet than yelling the truth into the world, about that lightning girl, about some...other things. I am not stupid enough that I wouldn't get simply killed and thrown in a river if I hadn't agreed. Or a terrible accident at the steep staircase at home. Oh, I can imagine Samson just doing the dirty work very fast and efficient, telling me how I hit him and hiss at him is a mistake.

For a blink, I am everywhere and see everyone, the perfection of the hive, like a wild mother, like a _god_.

The pheromones have marked them all. The first trail smells of danger.

"-distract you." The wasp's double sight takes in my favorite spy again, slightly leaning forward, suspicious drawn together eyebrows. I buzz right over her in a heartbeat. And this time she stares right back, unveiled harsh dark eyes. I am just doing what I was told, I don't feel sorry for that. "And she has been doing that the whole evening, wasting people's time. I told you Viper whispered nothing she would miss that evening. Nothing too curious."

The figure next to Sonyas arm smells like something else, graced by the wasp queen with luring sweetness, and it marks him and two other.

"Grandmother?"

Ara just stares at the wasp until it has passed.

My body below smiles hollow, low careful steps through the room, away from the dancefloor, away from the lullaby of death.

Two little twin boys, with wasp stings on their hands and necks, and both their parents. They're still here. All of them. Together. In the midst of it all.

Noble intents in honor, nothing came out of it. When does it ever? Noble deeds are for children stories and excuses.

My lungs take a breath spilling over, chains strangling me, taking in Samson on the other side of the dancefloor, stalking off, slowly.

The smells shift closely in the air, the whirls send my brain flying, my whole shaky hands and nerves tingling with sensations I find hard to process all at once.

My own eyes find the sparkling silver and grey of scales and spikes, and I have perhaps ten feet to cross over.

The hive releases a sense of danger, and everything yells inside me.

At last, I am with Ellyn again and finally, counting her breaths, a cloud of smells seeping through her into the sensitive creature.

The wasp buzzes and climbs over the outstretched digit onto the back of her hand, fluttering wings. Through the hazy double sight, her scars are enormous stretches over the bridge of her nose and the skin of her face.

"Daliah," Is all she says, with that voice she used for me before the breakdown, before she tried to console me and hand me a piece of metal for a corpse before anything bad happened.

_Love is always a mistake. Because when you stop loving someone, you either hate or miss them. Maybe both. Love is always wrong.  
_

All it does now is distracting her. It warps her face to some semblance of tender grief a moment, before her warm hands and strong fingers continue to touch the wasp.

No one will know my name is the last thing she will ever say as something vibrates through my bones and I know it's here when her eyes dart and flicker.

The bullet rips through the air with a pang, a red-cloaked figure moving. Through the room the vibration of the shots circulates along with the spasm of the antennas and wings.

Servants, of course, what else would red mean.

Laughable, really, that it is pride in the end, that kills some of us. The pride we all get born and drilled in.

Ellyn struggles, but she is a fighter, you can see it in her eyes. Hidden under the surprise is resolve, and her skin has turned to stone, shifting all over her face, her neck, her hands as they still hold the wasp between their fingers. It isn't helping. She isn't strong or fast enough.

She squeezes the hand tight around the wasp. To crush or protect it, I am not sure. The wasp has a crushed wing and broken legs in her hard hand.

The resolve breaks and dies with the bullet sinking too deep into her skull. The light vanishes.

She is dead.

For a second, my body is separated entirely from the rest of my mind and just stays silent.

_How often did I think about her death?_

_How long did I want to see this?_

I swore to her I would kill her and that I would enjoy watching the life leaving her body.

There is not a rush of triumphant energy, there is no satisfaction. The only thing happening is how I react next and force myself to move.

The shots have hit the whole room and I could have counted them. But something doesn't add up. I have been lied to, most probably, or perhaps a change of plans?

I only know that my count and what I was promised was wrong. Not even ten feet ahead of me, silver blood has spluttered over silver scales.

I remember how I used to shoot bullets at him and his sister. I would aim terribly into the sky to get mocked and I would shout as loud as I could to make sure I would never hit them.

This shot isn't from a scorpion girl for her metal bending cousins, and the whole scenery has exploded in a mass of knots and terror.

_Not marked, he wasn't meant to, I didn't know, what will his mother say, I couldn't do anything-_

Samson told me he was amused by how I thought I knew it all.

Time is a strange concept coupled to numbers and definition but still unpalpable, divided by the one experiencing it and moving through it.  
The last time I witnessed flashes of lightning in too close proximity, the spider was so scared I could feel my heart jump and leap in my chest and panic taking over my critter before it evaporated. Now it tingles only along my scalp, and everything is silent and dark.

The complete darkness feels like a shroud, muffling, and spiking, heightening the panic and chaos. I can hear screams. Then a sharp-edged commando that breaks through the darkness.

It's sounds of confusion, with feet galloping as loud as my heartbeat.

I have my eyes half-closed, tumbling along the rows and follow the scents quietly, keep an eye up.

Heat suddenly fills all my vision, flames erupt like an explosion. Kill most of my wasps in a shock of hard energy and push me back.

I am blinded, sight their own flashes of white lightning and tumbling dull grey. Stumble.

Chains rattling, I hit the ground.

The smell of something singed and charred sinks into my nostrils, almost sulfury. It is flesh and hair burning.

I choke and cough, dragging myself to the side until there is something wet sticking to my palms.

I just watched half of my wasps die, I heard their buzzing screams, couldn't zip out of the connection. I watch the people around me die and panic too.

When I look over, another pair of eyes glare in the half-light and shroud.

They belong to a dead body. Fragile. Small and narrow. A small wound left of a stinger on the back of his hand.

Four years old and dead.

Corpses.

I am surrounded by corpses.

Everything inside me cramps together. I can't breathe, scramble to my feet, almost fall the world turns too fast again, a ride-along with the carousel of unexpected sensations and the realization I have the blood of a child on my palms.

I take one long gulping breath, coughing, and there is a stale taste that sticks to my throat as the singed and burned smoke of death.

Fear.

It tastes of fear.

I know that because I can feel the panic around me.

_Get up. Now._

The thought is disconnected from my being, something primal and instinctual that wants me to survive. I'm not sure how I still stand and think rational. Some part of me is effectively numb.

One of the chains on my throat is lost, one on my waist dangles only half in place and hits my legs when I move.

As expected, I can't see either of the mind readers, my husband is gone, vanished into thin air somewhere safe probably, and the Queen was most likely ushered outside like the most protected and important people are always. Same with the prince and the king.

Ara and Sonya are gone too, and all that is left where they stood is the dead unmoving body of a man that called me beautiful and proved himself a miserable liar, shot point-blank.

This isn't how it was supposed to be.

This is not at all what I thought I would do.

This is...

I am unable to think clean and straight. My brain whirls through the face of a dead child and the longing for something that hurts me worse than the heat has, something I don't understand in my muffled heartbeat and racing thoughts.

Fractured pieces of flames and smoke, death and life, all of it swirls around me. In the middle of it all one figure in purple smeared with silver blood stands still.

 _Our blood._ She has _our blood_ on her hands. I suppose we both didn't expect the way this has turned out. And she doesn't even know my face.

My feet drag over the ground.

It rings in my ears, and I blink, try to concentrate as I get pushed back and someone elbows me hard. When I look up, the lightning girl is gone from my peripheral vision and I try to focus to move faster across to where I was initially headed.

I don't speak. There are no words left that can describe anything around me.

Time and space have stretched and shortened in the same instance, and now I have finally made it the ten steps over to Ptolemus' body.

He isn't dead. Blood has sputtered over his whole chest and the ground, seeping down the silver scales, but he is still breathing.  
I am not sure anyone will come to help. The flurry of panic, guards, the flickering lights that have barely returned to function.  
My dress is destroyed already. It doesn't matter what I do to it now. My hands shake. At least my knee is able to put in enough pressure on the wound, and I can see his dark eyes turn to me when I do my best and try to keep my promise.

My whole body shakes. There is no relief, nothing.

"It's alright," My voice isn't my voice at all, shaking and weak, hands smeared with his blood, holding onto my own face. His only reaction is a pair of angry gritted teeth. "I will-I will find someone, and then I go to- where is your sister? Where is-"

Another pair of hands suddenly comes to my assistance unexpected, and I see the red curls tingling stained over a shoulder and a ruined dress.

"There's a healer, you can let go."

I don't let go.

I don't move at all.

I just blink.

"Let go." Elane Haven repeats and stares at my shaking form, not touching me with force as I expected.

"You'll take care, yes?"

"Yes," She promises, and our voices crack like static noises in my ears.

_Get up, now._

The thought repeats.

I kneel in a puddle of blood beside my cousin and his fiance and try to breathe.

_GET UP NOW._

That is the moment my stifled mind realizes it isn't my thought at all.

* * *

I can barely fight myself. I am helpless against the propelling power of a whisper. Like a puppet on strings, my legs shuffle, my hands claw in the air before they find their purpose and my body reassembles itself under his control.

I want to scream and yell. The truth is, I am too exhausted for true anger, too confused. I'm easy, unexpecting prey.

My exhaustion vanishes under his influence. My muscles tense, my back arches, my head is up proud, even with the blood-smeared everywhere, the wreath gone and the remaining wasps still in a flurry of confusion. I want to scream at the healer, at Ptolemus, at Elane Haven, I want to hit my head against a wall until nothing is left inside to be possessed.

Instead, my body simply moves. I- He- WE shove through shuffling leftovers at people. Even my eyes seem to be different. They take the world in with a barely intrigued view, freed from the fear, instead filled with something ice-cold, no remorse, nothing. I am extinguished and trapped inside my own head.

One corpse catches our eyes a moment, he makes me stop and study.

Belicos Lerolan, the father of at least one dead child, and planned victim of the evening has not been simply killed with a simple bullet. Instead, there is a metal pole riving through him, mutilating him even more for his widow to find, and red fabric dangles from the metal.

 _Straining after effect,_ a part of me thinks.

 _Sending a message either way,_ the other disagrees.

Who knows which part is myself anymore. I am a hostage.

Samson makes me jog and gallop, out of the zone of death and danger. Even the way I walk is different under his control. I move fast and I shove and snarl if I need to, down the hallway, along another corner besides a staircase.

I have no idea what I do. I have no idea where I am going until I see him, unharmed, not even one hair out of place, that bastard.

A second something strange happens. Like someone snatches a rubber band and pulls it back, only to release it with force. I see him, and then I see myself a moment, only that I am not myself at all.

Scorched and bloody, torn and hurt, my face is wild and deadly, smeared dark lipstick and eyes surrounded by wild black streaks. My hair flies around my shoulders in destroyed waves escaped from my knot, wasps dangling everywhere from my body.

I am cursed and I am the curse.

There is beauty in that deathly pale anger and undoing. Not sleek and perfect, but so out of it, loosing it.

It is not attraction. It isn't even anything positive. Under the layers, there is still disgust. But for a tingling second, he really looks at me, seeing me underneath, in my rotten head and in this world, and it's mutual.

The sensation creeps up my mind and makes me want to punch him and run away.

"No time to waste, Daliah," he mutters.

I snarl at him, still picking through my head, holding my leash. The animals are the same for me as I am for him. We hunt , whimper, and beg for our masters and mistresses.


	30. Rime

_rime_

_-a covering of minute ice crystals on a cold surface: frost_

_\- rhythm, measure_

* * *

_**W**_ e are not angry.

I should be angry at him because he looks like he just makes a stroll through the garden, careless and flawless. I want to smash my fists into his face, kick, yell, spit until I slit his throat or shoot him into his precious brain.

The part of this mind that still belongs to Daliah Viper thrashes weakly. It's the dying spark of protest.

My puppeteer doesn't care about the protest at all. His mind clings to me in bright hard manacles made of diamond will.

_This helps you too, you'll see._

We are not angry while we move below the staircase, feet, and heads one and the same and somber separated by a numb wall.

The hallways are littered with bodies moving. Running, frantic business in the face of destruction. Wounds have been inflicted, and the blood is silver, the pride is as crumbled as the clothes and ruined dresses, and something hangs in the air.

It is a half shock, with moans and too hard breaths, and half a hiss, filled with anger and confusion. This confusion makes anyone dangerous and unpredictable. They desperately need something stable to guide them.

I want to be angry so badly.

I should be angry for obviously being lied to. Redacting information, changing it, to buy me temporarily. It has run out, that agreement, in the second the shots hits and one was planned to hit Ptolemus.

I don't appreciate being played without gaining an advantage. And I don't appreciate to be threatened in any way when it concerns promises to the part of my family I don't want to strangle myself most days.

Bought and sold, again, forever, shuffled between hands.

If I could, I would get my hands on that silver prince and squeeze the life out of him for lying in my face. And I would slap myself for believing this.

An angry buzz erupts from around my body. The smoke and flames have made them dizzy. Now they slowly come to their senses just as I have lost mine.

For only a second, the rubber band snaps back again, and I don't see myself this time. Instead, something seeps through the cracks in the frost between us. I take note of it as best as I can.

Samson doesn't care too much about Maven Calore. Not in a respectful way. He buckles and nods. But all he sees is the same as when he looks at me. A pawn, a tool, easily manipulated. He holds my strings, and he observes the way the whisper Queen pulls on other strings altogether.

Something akin to trueborn respect and almost worship for power springs through the cracks of our strange molten mind.

I want to laugh. Because he feels so superior. Because he believes she will give him a big, big share of it all as soon as they are done, as soon as the crisis is over. As soon as...well, what exactly? The thought ends there. The wall is intact again.

That only makes Samson tighten his grip around me, like some constricting embrace, squeezing whatever little is left in my head.

I should be very angry at the killers, red rebels, with that flashy red sun as their symbol. I should be angry about that girl, whatever she is with her red blood that shoots and creates lightning and the blood she has on her hands.

I should be at someone's throat.

In time, something clawing into my mind promises. Everything gets filtered by a glittering sheen, and the world warps before me.

It doesn't come from the same space that my acid boiled heart normally occupies, no heat rushing through my veins in the commando of drumming warmth that is the only thing that warms me truly. It is a fuel made of crystal.

Behind us, in the intestines of the building, rings a piercing, bloodcurdling cry, voices, then silence.

There isn't a visible reaction beside me, the slight shift of a blonde head as we move. Bright eyes, thin fingers, a manifestation of my nightmares that came to visit me at my wedding night.

And there is not any visible reaction to the sound in my mind either. It takes it in, and we move.

My body fits like a comfortable, worn-out leather glove, moves steady, fueled with energy and willpower I barely possess in my numb, tired state.

My back is arched, my hands are fists, and I am watching myself march like one of my bugs.

I whirl inside my trapped thoughts and the body that moves along strings. No one bothers to give us any attention. Guards and Sentinels are high on watch for something else crossing pathways, sprinting through a stone corridor, marching boots, guns at the ready.

How many time has passed since the explosion? How long since I left the ballroom? Five minutes?

_How many dead?_  I ask us. The thought is as cracked and smoked out like the death and destruction in the ballroom. I don't dare to speak, somehow.

_How many did you count?_

I blink against the cloud in my head.

Five, ten, a million. I only distinctly remember Ellyn, the child, the mutilated, harpooned body of Lerolan. I am too caught up in the whirling images of corpses that unify and overlap with other memories until I am lost in my past and frozen to stone. Then the smell of burnt flesh creeps into my nostrils again.

_A bomb planted by the red terrorists,_  His voice slides along the edges of my conscience like one of my snakes, fangs bare, venom dripping.  _Word spreading already._

Who'd doubt the spreading rumor after we have just been attacked and left so vulnerable? To neither of our surprise, I don't believe it. I could, but it comes from him, I don't believe anything he ever tells me- and the way he formulates the thought inside my brain leaves me no doubt it isn't just that. I may be a visitor inside my brain. I can still tell he hides and lies even now.

_Save to say the night is far from over._

The thought is calculated, and it doesn't feel anything for the dead, be they past, present or future matters. Through the manacles and the way we are melding and molding into one being, being hugged by that cold, I want to be horrified.

My mouth opens. Takes a breath. Nothing comes out of my dried out throat. Even if I wanted to. I can't answer the scream with one of my own.

_Good. No time to waste. We have maybe ten minutes to stake out where everyone is hiding. I have some things to see, some people to check in on._

He told me over dinner once he married me because I could be useful. I can see what he means now. My wasps flutter, my ability stretches as far as it can. He takes full control of my limbs, even if I feel the disgust as he makes me check in over all the little bodies littered in the palace.

Disgusting how well this control works.

I have lost the queen of the hive, and I have lost half the smaller bodies. The rest of the scents have sprawled out. I try my best to find the remaining trails again.

* * *

Samson hides behind corners and lets me do the dirty work, watching from the distance over me, making sure the incident of sharing thoughts involuntary doesn't occur again, holding the leash very tight.

I knew he had stamina, he tortured my nights in a row ripping thoughts out of my head and held me in place.

My first commendable action is to locate all the natural enemies.

As supposed, the leading figures of Norta are hidden and shut away, and the ruckus and words snapped and listened to through the vibrating air make me realize that the shooters dressed in red uniforms are still on the run.

I can find a few of Ara's people scattered through the palace. Sneaky Sonya is not one of them, and it's an older man giving low voiced words with a glare that pierces through my spider dangling in the corner.

All of this ordeal takes less time than one would imagine, and we work very precise, clockwork oiled and running.

But we have no patience.

It shows when we run into Calpurnias spawn rushing through a dark and barely illuminated wing of the Hall of the Sun, fire mask and cloak in place. The whole level is filled with very little life, and it is seemingly spread out.

Blocking my path, we stop and snarl in my body.

Some hard shot rings through he air in the distance.

Samson moves my hands, and my mouth snaps, teeth exposed, vicious.

"Move or I make you, Sentinel Viper." We hiss.

"You have no right to demand, Lady Viper."

Funny to hear that out of another mouth. And not only directed at me. We both fume for different reasons for hearing that. But it is also a taste of his own medicine.

I snort, and Samson lets me.

We walk taller, be more grand, more harsh, hacked off movements. Not too far off from how I usually move. The imitation is good enough to fool most people.

_Wait, I tell him. Wait, he is not standing guard. He was heading somewhere. Let me watch._

Wasps antennas vibrating, we fly through the air. We are many and all.

I can't find Sentinel Viper above my head. Instead, I find the fleeting hunt that occurs mere rooms from me, doors flying open, and blurry red jackets flying.

My frostbitten mind and shaking hands tighten again, and almost with the crack of a whip we both decide to seize a chance and work with what we are given.

We tilt our ears curiously.

We could join in on the hunt very obviously.

My hand instead now grips the knife that was hidden under my ruined dress, and I lurk and wait, because I have no pack, and surprise is the only favor I get in the dim light.

I don't initiate any kind of attack.

Time passes, and the creeking of a drainpipe above the window tells me that at least some weight in the form of red blooded prey has decided to take the chance.

The next thing I smell is the blood, coppery. One of them is definitely wounded.

_A wounded prey is a good prey._

Who knows which one of us thinks that- it hold true when I join in on hunting them down.

I mix in but obviously stand out between the sentinels, and I halfway hope to see any of my kin or cousins here.

Samson has an opinion on every cloak and name, and he is very, very interested in seeing me run to follow up. He also has an opinion on the older prince leading them, blood-soaked and ruined just the same as me, but a lot less passive than me.

The light is so little I don't see even much of their faces.

Red, silver. Blood is blood for a knife.

I want to aim, my body stutters when the connection between me and Samson cracks like a radio signal.

The knife sails through the air and buries hard into the pipe. Doesn't hit anything.

Young, all of them, no wonder, no surprise. I don't recognize a face, and at least that means my own little networking system of maids is uncorrupted by resistance, even if I leave them behind very soon.

The next moment something explodes, ripping, metal, heat, every violent distraction you can imagine.

Before I know it I am halfway forward because that is how I fight.

It's a short struggle for wounded and fleeing, no one ever thought they would make it do they?

One of the younger woman has the unfortunate struggle of two violent minds trapped in a short body with ripped fists, and her long hair flies. Not that she would go down without a fight.

I thought Samson would shy away and make me leave as fast as the entendre has passed.

He doesn't, even if he makes space and has to move to not get seen, he doesn't let go of me either. Rummaging through my brain.

"-shouldn't be here," someone says, but I ignore them and we address the leader of our little procession.

I have to look up. Blood has splattered and dried over his uniformed shoulder.

He doesn't even sees faces and people like others. They are below him. He notices details for their usefulness, I realize.

Be humble, be hurt, something forces me to let my shoulders slump.

His eyes are not blue like his younger brother when they notice me and he knows who I am.

_Of course he would, widow._

"My husband was officer Macanthos. He used to say good things about you, Prince Tiberias," The truth. But oh does my voice sound wrong. My fight against the words makes him slow down. I imagine both look terrible tired. "The colonel and I were barely in good graces again, but I know she loved me, and I still admired her," No one that knows me would believe a word I say now to the prince. "Thank you. Arresting their killers and extinguishing this will avenge her death and the terrible loss."

I bow my head. The gesture makes something amused because he likes to see me bow in general.

* * *

Returning, I get dragged by the shackles on my mind back to the ballroom and the closer proximity. His touch is more fleeting by now, and I get the suspicion I am not the only head he wades through right now.

_Missed King Tiberias making a promise to vanquish the red rebellion,_  Samson notes, and I take the information silently, staring at the red blood on my torn sleeve and skin, mixed with dirt and sweat.  _Everyone has so much pathos tonight._

He must be close by, but I have no idea where.

He provides an answer made of strangely colorless images, and for the first time, I'm glad for his ghastly powers.

I can see Calpurnia ruined. A startled Loren and an angry Atara behind, and to my almost amusement, it's the bird girl taking lead, dragging her brother along and making sure he stands straight, glaring at the direction Samson is lurking.

Something is missing and off about the shared images, but I have to take them for now.

Pale and sad and worried as ever, but alive, the face of my father springs to live and erupts in my head with a small wave of grey sparkling dots dancing before my eyes. Blood is dried on the side of his face, silver turned stale grey, a dull paint peeling off his cheek.

He isn't alone, that is interesting for sure, I notice that interest, but I can't dig into it, I can only notice its existence.

My father stands right next to Volo Samos, shrinking, unobtrusive, like the last time I saw him running off through the hallways before I hatched my failed plans.

Alive, for now. That is good with me, he doesn't deserve death, he will die from his disappointment on his own.

_Interesting_ , the whisper in my body warns, and something is off, bristling. I expect the worst kind of news.


	31. Ache

_ache_

_-to suffer a usually dull persistent pain  
_

_\- to become distressed or disturbed (as with anxiety or regret)_

_-to feel compassion_

* * *

**_W_** hen I was married the first time and left my home, my favorite member of the family gifted me two snakes.

One was black, one was white.

They were tiny, hatched and vulnerable. Both fit the palms of my hands.

I would sit at their cages and talk to them, stretch my fingers into the terrain and cup them. I would wear them on my body most days and nights.

They were the only reminder of my heritage. I was surrounded by a family that wasn't mine at all.

I watched them grow and reclaim their nature. A molten puzzle of warm skin and simmering fangs filled with pain.

They are still listening in to my secrets and promises, safely tugged into their cages at home, accompanying me this month to my trips around the palace some days, venturing the house.

The snakes and all the other creatures were the only company that stayed.

A similar set of snakes is curled on that sigil on my father's coat. A semblance of some balance, of a vicious promise, shimmering in the light.

My limbs move slow, I can't control where I go and what I do.

I blink at the unmoving face of Volo Samos. A man that has made his share of promises and lies, wealth and influence protecting him and everything he has like a net. And he has much more than my father, my family, or anything I ever touched.

While their mouths move, the words they say seem muffled. Ringing and whistling burrows through my ears in spiraled soft sounds. I blank out once. Blink again.

Force my focus to return. Get sucked back into reality.

"-unforeseen complication on all fronts," My father says, and I watch his bowing and inconspicuous form almost amused when I realize that is how I know how to buckle and roll on my belly to surrender. I learned it from the best. "And I will be grieving for my personal loss as well. He was my brother, after all."

He was my brother, he says.

I stare at them as if I am some dimwit, breathing low.

How long is he dead? Is it recent? Has it something to do with tonight? Was he one of the victims in the explosion? Was he even here?

He is dead, and my father was nervous and worried, and my husband disappeared for the better part of the rounds of entrance and greetings.

I don't want to think about it.

Doing my fathers favors. They trade and bother each other, they have done all month. Maybe my father has finally gripped an opportunity.

Is my father a murderer? An accomplice?

It doesn't make any sense, really. My father would never murder anyone from his own family. He was adamant to claim he would never challenge my uncle. He is quiet and clever.

Does he cover for Samson? Does Samson cover for him?

I wrinkle my brow. This evening is just confusing me to a grade I would grip my head and hold it tight if it wasn't already possessed.

"You are competent enough to fill in, as of now," Samos says.

"I did most of my life." My father agrees, looking old and ruined in comparison.

The matter of inheritance seems clear, but it can be nasty and unwelcome.

 _Your father wants to name you, Lady Viper, but as of now, your cousins always will come first,_ Samson crawls through my head, flattening all my emotions. _You should have either killed them or played nice._

I try to stay still and not move too much. Barely stand straight.

"I wouldn't have been able to be half as competent without my daughter."

My father lies low, sweet lily-livered lies that praise me.

I know I still glare like an idiot, trying to find out what exactly is happening.

My hand is slippery and weak in Volo's grip.

"You always were close to your cousins, Daliah. And your actions can speak for themselves. We may find a better-suited place for you."

I suppose that is the most praise I can get for pressing my palms and knees on his son's shoulder to stop him from bleeding out. My puppeteer steers me again, makes me hold it, moves my lips.

"I would have done more if I could. And I am always glad to serve you."

I hope my eyes speak for themselves, even if they are not my own anymore. My eyes beg and yell at the cautious, stone gaze grazing me from Volo, because whatever I have done or not done, I am not myself.

My father flicks his deeply sunken eyes over my shoulder, and I can't say for sure what he looks at, but when Volo looks as well, there is the smallest, most insignificant line around his mouth. My hand drops.

My father takes the reins because the whisper in my head is strangely quiet.

He looks almost proud of me. I can't grasp it. I barely can understand what is floating along. So much has changed in the last hours again.

"You are redeemed," My father's arm is firm and warm around my shoulder. I let him lead me through a vestibule, out of the ballroom, away from corpses dragged and prepared in front of a throne and the leftovers of the mourning family members, lovers, friends, that stand watch along with the work. Some people may hope they won't see the faces of their loved ones, some will get a confirmation for their pain and fear. "You saved a life and helped restrain rebels. You are the winner of this evening if there ever is one."

The whisper inside my brain is silent a moment.

I stumble. Hold on my father's side with my hand clawing in the fabric of his coat. "Where are my cousins?"

"Calpurnia is angry that I will take over the lead for now, and she'll probably raise hell to stop it from being a permanent rule. We will work with that. Loren and Atara are with her. They are on the way home."

That was not who I meant. He knows that.

We both raise our eyes and watch more sentinels stomp along the edge of our vision, crawl along the hallway.

"They are both fine. You helped to make sure Ptolemus is alive." His hand pats my shoulder. My remaining chains dingle and break a little more under his grip and the movements. "I'd wager there is a promotion for you waiting in the capital, Lady Viper. You are close to making it."

 _Yes, so close,_ the voice in my head comments. When I look back into the hallway my husband and puppeteer leans next to a window in respectable distance. He looks more gaunt and ruined in the dead night than I would have thought possible. _And won't that be interesting?_

Of course my father sees him too.

I want to smash my head into the wall. Instead, I burrow my head on my father's shoulder and try to breath when no one is watching. I can't trust him, and I can't trust myself. I can trust nothing and no one.

"You need to get some rest. Your husband is waiting for you." The arm is gone from me, pushing off.

* * *

I choke and cough once, a sound that echoes from the white walls and the tiles. Pressed on my knees like surrender, I am all alone. My lungs start heaving.

My stomach spins and slurs, tongue glued to my throat. Then I gurgle.

A stream of yellow, almost colorless bile leaves my mouth and hits the toilet with force.

The porcelain is cold under my fingertips. Blood has dried under my nails and all over my hands and the remnants of my dress.

From children.

Collateral damage, I could tell myself. Not planned. Still happened.

Nothing is new and appealing about the excuses.

I don't like children at all. I didn't know those. But something unwelcome in me isn't able to forget the look of their mother. The pity I felt crawling through my veins. She is a widow now too. I guess we have that in common. I could reevaluate her status and give her my personal condolences.

There is also the blood spilled from the shooting of my cousin. A bullet that has ripped through his shoulder. My knees and arms are stained with blood from trying to hold it inside, applying pressure and save a life and not destroy it.

The anger that was repressed with frostbitten power of diamond manacles returns now to me.

And then, of course, tiny, barely visible red drops mixed unto the sweat and dirt. Unfamiliar in color, I just glare at them.

I will never bleed red. I was born silver. I will die silver. Live alone, die alone, my first husband was right.

Every time the events of the evening twist and turn, forming coiled images that tumble behind my closed eyes, so does my stomach. I am tainted. I am tired.

Exhaustion claws at me, my burning muscles. I remember how smooth I felt under that whisper's control. How I could walk without the pain, only driven by the strings tugging me, making me talk, walk, and react.

He possessed me. In a way that makes my toenails curl. He carved a hole inside my most inner being and sprawled out with ease. He was good being me. We were one molded being. His hunger was visceral inside my veins, consuming me, suffocating me. He made a few mistakes, though.

He has slipped, revealed parts of his own thoughts, and he has given me some viable points of view. And he is terribly exhausted and sweaty or was at least the last time I had to see him. Controlling me takes some part of him on the edge.

I spit out into the toilet. A big badge of acidic spite in disgust.

It was supposed to be a victorious night. I don't feel like celebrating at all.

In some twisted way what I want is so so close.

My uncle died. With my father in charge, I am so close to being actually in charge of what is left of House Viper. Like I always waited for it to be.

A promotion, a way out of the house and closer to my extended family, escaping and taking a step up the career ladder.

And Ellyn is dead.

I pictured her face so many times.

She is dead. I watched her die. I should be overflowing with happiness right now.

I'm not stupid enough to think anyone trusts me with their secrets voluntary. I'm the wife of a mind reader. And the whisper Queen counts on me to be a mole with precious relations and information where she can't reach.

I vomit again and again until nothing comes out. My throat burns and hurts.

I cough, snort, and when I am sure the door is locked I collapse onto the cold tiles. Spending one of the last nights in this house on the bathroom floor is probably not how I pictured a farewell.

One of my spiders creeps over a rift in the white and grey tiles. It has sunken down along a faucet and I watch it move. Stretch out my hands.

The hairs on its body tickle me when it runs over my dirty hands and arms.

Retribution is so close I feel it on my fingertips like the legs of a tarantula. Months ago my life was taken and erased. Now I have finally made it back. I can't give up now.

I have some relations to unveil. Some strings to attach, some relations to make.

The spider stays with me. Pairs of eyes watch me motionless. I lift my hand to my mouth and give the spider a kiss. It bends under my bitten, damaged lips, quivers.

Then I drag myself up now, ripping the remaining chains off, don't care about the ruined dress. A tangled mess of metal and obsidian rags are left behind.

I leave footprints on the floor when I step outside the bathroom, damp bare feet stomping. No lights are igniting the hallway and steep staircase. Everything is empty and dark.

In the swallowing hole darkness, I can only feel my anger again, and I was never more glad to be myself. To feel that cursing hatred that flows through me and powers me like a battery.  
Something shivers through the thick fabric of my robe, and I cross my arms, listen to the sounds of the house.

Eerily silent. No angry snarling, no whispered voices, in my head or around me.

I wonder if he is there, inside his room, hiding in his chair, resting.

I turn the handle. Locked, of course.

"Are you inside there, Samson?"

I stare at the smooth surface of the door.

"Enjoy your sleep," I mutter. Even though I am most likely alone and sound like I have lost it, hoarse voice and hisses. "Just hide. Hide, like a coward."

There is no visible reaction to my mock and challenge.

I kick against the door. Kick again. Just a few times to unload some of my frustration.

Nothing happens.

No answer.

No anger exploding in my brain with the waves of the headache.

My room is the same as I left it before this evening. The forsaken glass casket of the paperwhite hive stands tall. Barely buzzing anymore.  
Soon this room will be left empty. I will take my things and move on, far away. I will leave nothing behind but bad memories.

"I heard the commotion," a voice stutters behind me.

"And instead of fleeing and hiding from the sound you come wandering in?" Slowly decomposing anger and brain I look behind him. His brown eyes dart around.

"He isn't here," I assure him. "Now leave me alone. I need to think."

For the first time, he doesn't scurry away when I tell him to. A narrow figure made of clammy, nervous fingers and rapid blinking. I stare at his clean sleeves, curl my hands on the side of my robe.

"You showed interest, and you didn't need to," he explains. "You could take me with you when you go back. I don't have anything here. You could need me."

I don't feel anything right now, my heart is a tired, numb stone, and maybe Heron was right when she said I was cold-blooded. It is probably better not to make him hope for anything I can't give.

"You misunderstand my intentions," I huff and walk over the wall of glass cages and boxes. My most loyal servants. "I am incapable of interest in people when it exceeds my goals and my family. It is the reason I never asked your name. I know it, but I don't ask and I don't use it."

He seems taken off guard by that. We both recoil from the raw honesty that draws this talk.  
"No one ever asks for a servant's name," he stutters, "We learn that on the first day. No eye contact, no words. So I don't think less of you for that."

His persistence and loyalty are admirable, I suppose. He is kind, and he is real, a person that could die and vanish easily in the chaos, small enough to be swallowed.

My brow creases.

"Not one of my animals has a name." My fingers crawl over the side of one of the smaller boxes. A purple and black bug creep along. It moves and mirrors the digits drawing on the invisible leash. "Because even if I care for their wellbeing, I use them. They are replaceable."

_I can't get afford to get too attached to something that can be easily destroyed and die, they have to be controlled._

"You're replaceable, _red boy_ ," I say. "And now leave me alone. You shouldn't try and abandon your family anyway, not for a position of uncertainty."


	32. Apprehension

_apprehension_

_\- suspicion or fear especially of future evil (foreboding)_

_-the act or power of perceiving or comprehending something_

* * *

**_I_** wish it was me and the darkness in my dreams, like some undefined lulling embrace. It is just the mixture of blood, screeching sounds and memories fleeting, and it drips over the few hours rest I take like tar. Hot, slippery, closing around me.

A flash of light. Faces twisted in shock, mixing together from all the corpses I have seen, all the dead bodies. It twists slow, tries to untangle, but my confusion won't let me go, even in my subconscious dreams. And then there is the familiar appearance of the blurry memories, and maybe it is because I only have them, or it is because I have lost protection and Samson will now always be watching and waiting in my head. It seems a small chance he isn't comfortable rolled up in his chair, resting, as I found him in the first night I was left alone in this house. The night where he held tightly onto the moth I send to watch him.

I dream about running towards Larentia, sleeves swinging, boots crunching, and I smile when I reach her. I have to crane my neck to look up, and she looks back at my hand on her elbow. And she approves of what I tell her, you can see it in the way she arches her back and tilts her head and we are young so young-

Silver blood on a scaling almost armoring piece over a shoulder becomes something else, more blood, more silver, something else- something that shouldn't exist. It is still dark outside when I wake up and I can feel the way I shift in my bed, kick off the sheets. I feel sick and weak again, and I hate it.

I tumble forwards, hair curling in half-dried waves around my face. My hands are clean. My nails are clean. My fingers still shake until I curl them into angry fists at my side.

The house is in motion. It seems that after all the times it was dreadful empty and devoid of any life except my creatures and a mind flaying husband hidden somewhere, crawling onto me, it has come to life.  
Feet shuffle, voices rise, and in the conundrum of collected business I am not sure what I missed in this few hours.

My feet carry me to the staircase first, but only fleet footwork of red servant scuffles along with the peripheral vision. The voices come from the door I tried to kick in last night in frustration.

 _His_ door.

"She requested your immediate presence."

It is muffled through the door. All sounds are. My senses jolt to life.

"I won't let her wait then."

The voice is haunting my head, and for a moment I need to make sure it is real, not just inside my brain.

I knock, only because we aren't alone. One, two, soft, hurt knuckles grazing the cool dark wood.

I have never been inside this room with my own body. The door is usually locked.

Now I get to be inside. Not sure I like it.

My feet step in at the low invitation that follows.

Everything is cold and neat, except the air. Windows tightly shut, it is stale inside.

"My lovely wife," The words bite into me with sharp teeth. _Lovely_ he says, but it sounds not like a compliment. He is slowly sitting upright, thin fingers gripping the armrest and pushing himself into standing behind his completely empty desk. No paper, not even a trace it was ever used. Navy blue suit, his pale hair and skin stand out. I am not sure if it is flattering. I suppose it is, all vanity considered. All I see is something decaying behind the well-kempt facade in the lights.

"What is going on?" I ask, crossing my arms to stop myself from flinching away in front of all the eyes and visitor.

"It seems," Samson says instead of the poor man standing in waiting on the sidelines. "The rebels have escaped confinement from the cell."

I snort low. Of course. Things continue to move, even when you don't look. It shouldn't be a surprise someone or something removed the save option of easy questioning and easy execution to extinguish whatever big mess this grows to be.

"Everyone is probably very unhappy about this."

If he has any strong feeling about it, he doesn't show it. He blinks at me unmoving.

The air in the room is stale, no window is open. We breathe in and out and I feel some drip of sweat on the nape of my neck. No one says anything. The man on the sideline looks at both of us with barely concealed caution and slight respect.

"You can leave now." He dismisses the man. When he doesn't instantly retreat, a harsh gesture of his hand follows, waving like the man is an unwanted creature beneath him. He most definitely is after what I learned from his thoughts last night.

"Leave. I want a moment of privacy with my wife."

Privacy. Hah.

_Just so you can possess me again and move me like a toy?_

Like a rat scurrying away not to drown, the man does as he is told.

"Reactions are varying degrees of outrage, anger, and accusations of incompetence."

My fists beside my dress tremble.

_Heads will roll very soon._

I don't know if I am looking forward to that. It won't be my head, at least for now. I have just become valuable, all things considered.

"Interrogations have been proposed," Samson continues. Interrogations? He is going to be participating in another round of ripping secrets out of heads then. Delightful. "People need to be suspended. And we move back to the capital more hasty than expected."

I nod slowly. That does make sense. Wrapping up some things and getting new resources, gathering up in the capital, where we can assume to be safer.

I shuffle a step back when he takes one around the table.

He told me once he would never flee and never surrender to me, and I guess that it hasn't changed.

We haven't talked at all since he has left me alone to vomit my intestines out in the bathroom, and he wasn't very talkative before. Neither was I.

I don't want to be close to him.

"I'll need you in the palace. Just in case."

He thinks he can give me orders from now on. A single word leaves my mouth.

"No."

"No? I thought you finally understood what you are."

"You said it yourself. I am your wife. I am not your servant." I keep my head up as high as possible. _I will never be your servant._ "You can talk to Elara Merandus' henchmen like this. Not me."

I grit my teeth upwards at him. I am putting all my bitterness into my smile with too many teeth showing. He is so close he could easily hurt me again. But bruises mean nothing after all. "I will be in the Hall of Sun the next hours, but not because you told me."

Something in his eyes changes the longer he stares down at me. It is the intent glare he gave me when I dragged leaves into the hallway from the first chase, the looks he gave me over the attempt of parley, the looks he gave me last night dancing with me.

It is a moth in a jar. It is midnight crashing cold frost. I remember the hunger very well from last night, and I want to puke again when his fingers slide over my skin. They push back a strand of dark hair behind my ear.

I'm always unpleasantly surprised how soft he suddenly can be, not the man that has made someone stab himself, not the butcher of my memories, not the puppetry servant. It's _too_ soft, and we know it both. It's a lie.

"When we leave, I will need to check in with my family. My father will need me. I haven't seen my mother for..." My voice stops, trails off unable to count the days. It has been even longer than the eleven months of social death. "For a very long time."

"Don't try to be brave or stupid. I watch you. You know I can just take you and everything I want."

Not exactly a lie but an exaggeration. Whoever and whatever he has been doing the last weeks, he doesn't wield enough influence and power. We are the degraded cousins. It is a cheap trick.

He isn't the only one with cheap tricks.

 _Cheap tricks do serve as a distraction sometimes,_ I said that to Evangeline. I haven't forgotten.

"How was it, being me?" I force my voice to ask. It almost sounds trivial.

Fingers running over his blue clasped chest, upwards, they rest on the spot between shoulder and neck.

His pulse is rushing in waves under his skin.

Something glows inside my body touching him, bitter deep repulsion like a boiling grain of sand eating through my system. But it's almost ironic he likes to put his hands there on my body and I return the favor now.

"Easy," he answers, eyes slightly narrow, eyebrows drawing together. "Unsurprising. Disgusting."

* * *

Hauntingly the dead and mourning have left an invisible trail of silence behind.

Despite the early hour, everything is very busy. But everyone moves with their eyes wandering and their anger and pride as a badge of honor and shields. The only badge I wear on my jacket and dress is the scorpion on my chest, clinging to it. My shield is only the ants and spiders that follow me. They gather in black spots near the walls, pulsing like one lifeform huddled together.

A prince wanders through the palace the same as everyone else, except maybe the security matters that provide some safety for him.

"A moment of your time," I say, and my heels are like fanfares making my attendance clear to everyone around.

Maven stares at my flying loud form. Tilts his head slightly. "A moment."

It's seemingly in both our natural reaction to find a place no one listens in on us.

Interesting enough, a small black spot has formed over the lense of the camera closest to us, crawling life obscuring any image that may be recorded.

I move hard and fast, as soon as we have rounded the last corner, elbows pushing against his chest. He crashes into the wall, crumpling slightly for a second before catching himself.

"You lied to me when we made our last arrangement." My legs stomp. I lean very close. I can feel his breath on my brow. The black scorpion holding onto my shoulder runs along my arms, holds on. Leans just as close. It dangles dangerously close to his throat. One twitch and it will sting, hit him with the dead inside."I don't appreciate being played."

Our voices are almost toneless, lips barely moving.

"You got what you wanted." He responds immediately, not moving. "You got everything you ever wanted."

"You couldn't know that," I hiss, and the venom-injecting barb of the scorpion wavers and swings a little, almost touches his dark hair, wavers over his chin and a narrow line of cheek. His throat moves hard when he swallows.

"No? Calculated risk, one could say."

The scorpion skitters, still shaking the pincers and the dripping deadly stinger. Grey creeps up his neck and ears, some emotional reaction he can't hide. Fear? Anger?

I press harder against him, pushing with all the force I still possess.

"My cousin's life is not a calculated risk for me!" I hiss.

I thought before they had the same eyes but a difference behind them, an intelligence overpowering something else. Not too much reminding me of my husband despite their relation and the blue, pale color.It is easy suddenly to determine something, that he narrows them just the slightest amount.

A small, barely noticeable sound rings up next to me. I look down on his hand and see a spark. A small, but very hot sensation flickers next to the scorpion for a moment. It almost singes me and my animal. I stare over at his pale, too young face.

Some eyes are frozen blue like an ocean. But the hottest flames are also always burning blue.

 

My husband thinks Maven Calore is just a speaker and tool for his mother. I can't say how closely that is true. I have learned a little about mind readers in your head enacting their will and trying to stand against it.

I can pick up on something frantic now, pale long fingers moving and I am not sure how to react to it. So I just let him go, hands retreating, body distancing too.

My shoulders slumb forward slightly. I know the sensation of being evaporated in flames and lightning, I don't need to lose another creature to it. This is already too out in the open, too dangerous for me.

"If you had known, would you have backed out? Would you have tried to save him? Are you that committed to acting your role?"

What a question. Of course, I would have tried to help and stop the whole ordeal...but then nothing would have gone the way it does now.

Ellyn may still be alive. The children too?

_No._

My face unwillingly twists into some grimace.

No this would all have happened without me too.

My uncle would be still dead and my father would be all alone. Because I would most likely not be standing here in one piece.

"You saved his life, you are standing out in pride for the first time in forever."

He is right. If I had known he was on the list, would I have made it in time? Would it have been convincing? The explosion was not planned. But it aided whatever story they want to tell. Maybe it is the same with me mumbling over Ptolemus.

"I held every promise I made to you, Lady Viper." He whispers the words only but they could be screams in my ears. I stare at him, filled to the brim with the need to hurt someone. "I kept Samson off your back for weeks. Someone you despised lost their life. Your family is untouched and in not such a bad place assuming you continue to strive. All you had to do was keep secrets and distract some people. And you did. You are an accomplice, and not just because someone tricked you. You aren't innocent."

I am a spy being spied upon, an unwilling mole, but I am an accomplice either way.

And he is right. I huff out a breath. I am not innocent at all.

"Whatever comes next," I mutter. "Whatever you are going to do. Don't think it will go ever unnoticed by anyone."

"Oh no, but here is a proposition," The prince answers almost matter of fact, still quietly enough not to carry over as we move. We assume our positions to carry on to whatever we need to play outside. Masks very intact. "Be a part, help keep things unnoticed again, you get what you want. Don't," He clasps his hands together, folding them. "You'll disappear and no one will ever know what happened to Daliah Viper, the merry widow. And no one will care."


	33. Heimweh

_Heimweh_

_-homesick: longing for home and family while absent from them_

* * *

_**H**_ ouses and quarters build for half a season, to sit out conflicts and engross in them through summer air, comfortable seating on a row in arenas and gardens. It all gets abandoned. The swarm has chosen to move. Move back to the capital. Families huddle in packs together now to get on the travel back to the capital in one way or another, as fast and efficient as they can. Some will not come along.

Especially not our military figures stationed on delicate spots and their proxies. Or the fresh supply of young bodies soon dead.

It's a divide and a gamble. Make sure you get the right amount of useful figures on each side and in a favourable position.

And all the while we fight along the borders, we continue inside.

Even though I have not yet received orders or any kind of message about my new position, I know very well that there will be hunting in the capital.

Blood has been spilled. It will be repaid. That is just a matter of time, really.

I am an obvious choice to join in on sniffing and hunting, as I have proven. Alone or with the whisper in my mind.

Merely an hour after Maven has threatened and promised me something at the same time, I get the call of the Vipers and make my way to say goodbye to the house I have lived in the last weeks.

I say a low and ungracious goodbye to the rooms that have heard a ton of yells and seen violence.

I say a low goodbye to the emptiness now that my cages have been moved.

My eyes only brush and whisper a goodbye to the lost narrow figure of a red boy, standing far away.

I leave a present for him in the steep sideway where the servants usually wander, so he'll see before he goes back to his family and death brothers and sisters. A glass box merely big enough that a spider may fit inside.

My family will travel with a ship at a certain meeting time to board up and leave. We aren't the first to leave. But we won't be the last.

I am early. Only because I have to be.

I see beaten Loren and Calpurnia black in mourning but green as envy in the distance of the water. Atara hasn't come to join.

She is already gone in another direction. Scattered into the air as if she truly has sprouted wings and already flew off.

Even if the aspect of travelling with my house and my family doesn't excite me. It fills me with a small satisfaction to know they have to do as my father says now. And to an extent that means treating me with respect and listening to what I have to say.

I rather have a bag of snakes on my head than to be close to more Merandus.

That is why I welcome the breeze shuffling through our clothes with the indefinite smell of water and mud thrown over our boots when we stalk too close to the boat.

I say the last farewell for now to my husband. He holds my fingers too tightly again, not liking to see me slip out of his sight. I pretend I don't mind.

I only shoot him a glare when he silently lifts my hand and lets his cold lips glide over my hurt knuckles hidden behind leather gloves. I want to pull away and kick him. Instead I smile politely like a ghost, because we keep everything behind hidden doors. Be it a physical or psychological fight.

We are polite. Inside we wish the other one to subside and surrender in our caged marriage. Nothing has changed. Never will.

As it seems, I am far from the only one saying goodbye. Some groups are intertwined for short moments. Colors clash and mix. Nods and handshakes are exchanged like precious coins to collect.

Heron Welle seems to say goodbye to the whole world with a lost, shut off neutral expression that speaks of something fatal. You only have to reach through the cracks to see it.

The wind flows on a breeze over our skirts. Heels clicking, her entourage of guards sniff and glare suspiciously at me. But they know me. I have been keeping Heron Welle's best friend company. I have yet to be anything but a little hurtful with words to her to make it to the list and be watched.

Sticking one unruly strand behind my ear, I move next to her.

Her hands lean along the railing. Eyes blue and fluttering lashes, lost, she stares at the water below. The water seems grey in the morning.

A horn vibrates through the stone beneath our feet. A bird circles high across in the sky. I turn away from the booming sound just as the bird drifts higher into the sky.

Heron's eyes are still somewhere into the distance.

A smaller boat pushes over the river. It is barely a shadow and continues to shrink, until it will disappear in the distance.

"I used to play a game with...someone when I was young," I offer some piece of a story. My voice gets pushed off by the wind. "Whenever we'd see a boat or vehicle pass or a jet fly by, she'd ask about colors I could see attached to it. When there weren't any , I would make them up. The question was always the same : Would you rather be one of them or one of us? And the answer stayed the same for obvious reasons."

With another hard push of the wind her skirt flutters and leaves a golden stripe where it moves in waves.

"You fit in with Merandus more already than you do with the Vipers or Samos. Every time you spied over me and Atara I wanted to say that."

I fold my arms tightly. Can't let it show she hit me where it hurts.

"I don't need to discuss marriages with you. It is rarely about love when it can be about business."

_And when it is about love, it ends in scandal or tragedy. Just look at the row of old men._

_What were my father's words?_

_"Most old men are either angry or grieving this days."_

I prefer myself alive and unscathed by the evil foe that is love. At least a marriage in disgust does not make me soft and weak.

"You two were participants in tradition the whole month after Queenstrial. So was I," I argue.

My darlings, I called them. One month of shackles with the butcher and his ominous plans to flatter the whisper Queen and step in with my father and higher ranked people. One month of my mind being shot up and down. One month that has made the widow a wife. And the wife now has a spot to protect and lies to keep safe about a prince and a girl with blood that is red but still contains lightning.

"Things will change. I need to get to the family shortly."

Heron doesn't look like she will stop me should I decide to cut this conversation short. But I can't deny some mild malicious joy about what I say next.

"I guess Atara told you she'll be away in training and on duty for the better part of the year."

I expected her soft, long limbed form to crumble. Heron does not even blink. Her eyebrows are set straight, she fights the wind and eyes for posture.

She looks older a moment, less imbecile than I always tried to make her out at the side of my cousin. Not just a nasty gossip monger and sweet flower gifting friend but really and truly only the daughter of a governor. Someone that has more intel and knowledge than she'd ever let slip in on someone like me.

And she looks as cautious as she looks afraid.

We're silver daughters. We know duty. I didn't give her that credit. I do now.

"I am not leaving to the capital either," she answers very polite. "Not yet. My father needs to clear some things out first for our sake as well as administration for the province."

"Good surviving then," I bow while speaking, my head nodding low.

She doesn't reciprocate immediately.

"Someone is always willing to negotiate as long as all the participants share the same blood color," She says instead. Head high. The moment of weakness and maybe loss has passed.

I expected her to say something patriotic. About Norta maybe. Same blood color means more than that.

A hint, perhaps? Delicate ties to someone outside of Norta.

Some people surely know. Or would be interested to follow that little slip. I make another mental note.

"Goodbye, Heron Welle, it was different than I expected." That are my last words to her.

 _Not you, not until now, but there's a lot to digest and take from this weeks_.

"I wish you luck in your new position, " Heron says quietly. She is all quiet and not bubbly laughing as she was on summer days passed. Daughters on duty, useless attachments gone. Just as prophesized on a summer day on a bench.

I remember Atara's cocky response as I watch the lonely bird circle between two clouds.

_Birds may eat bugs, Atara._

_Birds get shot down easily though when they are not careful._

_And warfare and murder eat hearts._

* * *

My dark dress floats along the pier as I link my arm with my father's and throw a last look back.

The Vipers are pressed into groups of two or four around us, mixed at alignments inside and positions.

We have the loyalists, the opportunists and the undecided. You can make out which one is which by the way they glare or deny to acknowledge my existence.

Some will stay. Some will move back and stretch through whatever task they have. I know some will go to the front.

Not my arrogant cousin though.

"Loren and Calpurnia will stay for the funeral?" I deduct.

My poor uncle.

He died before the incident everyone calls  _Sun Shooting_  by now.

The word made me frown the first time.

It sounds fabricated.

As fabricated as the story surrounding my uncle's death.

His anger has made him rush over too reckless in the end. But everyone will remember him for his deeds and not dying alone from a weak heart or poisoning or whatever it is. It varies from person to person you ask.

Nothing to save and salvage. Except his corpse.

I want to laugh when I hear that.

Was my uncle always brash and loud? Yes of course.

Did he have a weak heart? I have no clue.

Do I suspect someone has played a part in ending him? Yes.

Do I trust any of the Vipers no matter if opportunist or cold blooded traditionalist?

A rhetorical question more than anything.

Trust.

I cling hard to my father's arm, black gloved fingers pressing into the soft sheen of his jacket.

I thought he was neutered. In truth he was careful.

_My quiet clever father. What's your true allegiance? You dabble with an awful lot of people._

"Head up, Lady Viper," he whispers, soft and always looking after me, even in the worst time. "They'll put him to rest and follow. It is vital to get back to the capital as soon as possible."

They cover it up. Keep it quiet. I will find out who plays what kind of music.

What did Merandus offer so he openly traded me?

I curse myself for paying little attention. But it is their fault too. They're good at hiding. I guess you learn that fast in a world like ours. And if you master the disguise and imitation, you can be everywhere and with anyone until they trust you.

"Are you excited?" Someone dares to ask when I take my seat inside.

I lift my chin and don't say anything.

But the answer is yes. Yes I am excited.

I was not in the capital for more than a year.

I should be excited as much as the thought makes my stomach turn and my heart beat hard in my chest.

I am going home, after all.

Even if everything is already so different now.


	34. Pitch

_pitch_

_-to present or advertise especially in a high-pressure way_

_-to attempt to persuade_

_-to set in a particular musical key (Pitch is the relative "highness" or "lowness" of a sound when compared with other notes. It can also indicate an absolute fixed position in a range of musical notes.)_

* * *

**_W_** e travel fast as we can. I am still trapped on the ship the whole day with my family.

My brain takes in all the whispers and information it can.

All those small bits about all those names. People I know. People I will never know.

Funerals.

Newly appointed positions.

It drifts around the discussion to my left side, where I can faintly hear about security breaches in the last months, and again, just as Heron and Atara have brought it up anxiously, the Vipers chatter and tiptoe around the Scarlet Guard, the Sun Shooting, what the plausible next steps would be.

I listen closely to what I can manage to gather.

But in the end, I shut off, and I drift away, watching the water, seeing the smoke curl over parts of towns, and then I doze off.

My father lets me. He stays beside me on his seat, occasionally shifting, not trying to touch me at all. I am grateful for that.

I take the well-needed rest, and this time the dreams are milder. Knowing there is a physical divide of miles between me and Samson helps a great deal.  
When I wake up, something bushy strokes my leg hasty, and a wet nose rests on my palm.

The dogs have gathered around me, let loose from somewhere inside the ships intestines, most probably hidden in boxes bigger than the ones my small bugs and spiders would be.

They're happy to roam more freely, and it feels good to know that at least something in this world appreciates and respects me without challenging my sole existence.

We reach the capital by night time.

The lights draw and string me along like a moth on a low summer night, and I try to remember where I used to go. What I liked, before I lost my home, my family, my money and mind.

So much glass and stone, so much beauty curled into high rocking towers and curled roads. Figures moving over bridges at all times, reminding me that this place never really is asleep.

The docks are busy with ships and rocking vehicles back and forth ready to transport the swarm. Just as we left, we arrive. But despite the buzzing life, this is nothing yet. Royal family has yet to arrive alongside with the two ladies betrothed and all the vigor accompanying them.

My father manages to loosen some commands up on the Vipers, and they vanish into the wind to do his bidding like my wasps and , only that they are human formed and stuck in vehicles or other means of transportation.

He is good at organizing, I have to give him that. Setting them up to places where he alone couldn't reach, telling them who to contact, who to flatter, where to go and what to say.

I guess hours inside meetings and lodged inside business to take care of when my uncle is busy with other things do that. Experience is important. It is not strange at all people would look at him to take over when he has proven himself useful.

At last, it is just me in the middle of the pack, left with him.

"How about we pay your mother a visit? And I am sure if there are newer instructions, you ought to find them there."

I take a breath. "Off to the Viper residence it is then."

One Ear huffs. Battle Scar barks low. Runt just sits like a silvery shadow beside me.

Then my father whistles and they trot along with both of us.

* * *

Every house in West Archeon is an island, a fortress, a safe space. The Viper residence in the summer was laid bare in a cracked courtyard. This house is not.

It's good to have some security measure, even if I am unsure if we need them. Not with the roaring loud noises I can hear from behind and inside. The house is alive with creatures of many kinds, fitted for many tasks, held by many hands.

I don't miss Atara, Loren or ghastly Calpurnia at all.

This is not quite a predatory menagerie. But it is close enough to whatever Larentia had to offer far off on a summer day.

Home. I take a long breath and inhale the scents floating in the air.

The fine mingling of animals and perfume, the sounds they make as they croak and rattle somewhere in the distance.

Like a long lost childhood that seems millions of years away.

The pack whines a little, and I know they smell the same things as I do.

There is only one room that my mother occupies at most times of the day when she is home.

On the circulating way down spiral stairs and rooms etched into the building, we make our way along until we reach a corridor we probably both know too well.

My father stretches out his hand, not yet touching my jacket, but fingers lingering over my shoulder.

I stare at him in the cooly dark molding light that gets swallowed by the dark scratched wood and stone. Narrow my eyes.

Then I start to listen, and suddenly I know why he stopped me.

The sounds now reawaken a rather unpleasant part of my childhood.

The piano is soft, swelling heartbeat with steady rhythm and tact. It sets off like a cloud.

My father tilts his head. Waiting.

A violin pulls in, slow, soft strokes.

The violin is swinging and vibrating, smooth, and finds the right tones to fit in the cracks of the existing music.

It's a duet. A well-practiced one at that, and now there's little guessing to why he stopped me.

We both know the musicians.

For the pacing of two breaths, the sounds just mingle through my head.

My father is equally concentrated. But there is something in his eyes and face too. He smiles. But he might as well cry concerned by the way his eyes are somewhere distant and wistful.

The violin leads him along to something I can't understand. Or don't want to.

My father longs.

I lick my lips and want to kick the door in to end the duet.

Silence the violin.

It would not be the first time I did that. End the strings with a disharmony of a bow screeching over strings.

It plays well now and I can't hurt this longing man. Not when he wants me to succeed him. And I still need him on my good side.

The strings swing gets faster along with the steady piano, dwindling, circling pieces of music that clutter through the wall and cracks of the door, seem to seep out of the door hole.

The piano upsurges, loud and demanding and not soft anymore.

A slow, high string of sounds expand to a melody that gets faster and faster until it makes me almost dizzy trying to imagine how fast the hands on the instruments must move.

The sounds swell and explode in a crescendo before turning slow, leaving my ears tickling and my eyes blinking lingering again.

The piano stops first. Then the violin sets off in a last, almost mournful ending note.

As it turns quiet, I finally shake the stupor off and knock on the wood hard.

A faint voice answers to come in.

I swallow at the knot in my throat before stepping in, sharing one look with green eyes surrounded by sorrow wrinkles.

He follows me.

By the window, surrounded by white lights buzzing down , overlooking the square in all the long rows of houses, there is a man dressed in bleeding bright white on the piano.

I watch him very closely.

The man's hands are brushing over his white jacket.

He is still gaunt and long-faced. Just slightly more old than hazy memories that lie years past.

My father is silent. As mostly. I am the one taking the lead, building my thin waisted figure as high as possible.

"Ah look, my least favorite Arven," I scowl, refuse to use his name even if I know him all my life. "And here I thought you'd be in Whitefire the whole time as part of your duties."

"Returning by the end of the hour," He doesn't look at me, eyes only brushing. "Your mother insists I take my breaks and enjoy them. Congratulations on getting married again, Daliah."

I only have a scoff in my chest for him.

And then he locks my father.

"And you're the head of House Viper now. Unsurprisingly knowing how much time you invest in all sides of trade and meetings."

Nothing explodes. No fight breaks loose. No insults or barely hidden mockery gets exchanged.

My father and Arven are used enough for the presence of each other.

Years of tolerating each other's existence have done that.

They don't even glare.

"A temporary measure," My father wrinkles his brow. "But thank you."

 _Thank you._ He says _thank you._

I want to scream. Or laugh. My body heaves under the force of too much pressure, lungs trying their best to breathe steady, poised and unaffected.

I should have known better than to come here.

"I will leave you to your family," Arven announces, a nod of recognition for my mother. "As always a pleasure, Vipers."

I finally force my eyes over, peel them away from _that man._

My mother has her light hair falling over her back in a braid when she leans over the chair. She cradles the chestnut-colored violin, reddish in the sunshine and electric light alike. Then it disappears in the box set next to it.

My father only stares at her black and white dressed form as if he is sure she will just fade into dust and thin air.

I am too old to get jealous or hurt over her endeavors. As a child though, it left a stale taste, to put it mildly, whenever she picked a piece of wood over me.

_Look, look, just give me one more look._

The muscles in my neck tighten.

"Welcome back in the capital," She says. Friendly. Soft. No anger. Nothing but gentle politeness.

For a second she looks at me. and something in her eyes pokes at me with the force of hot iron.

I hoped to get anger. A strong feeling.

Larentia was harsh, and she was right to call me out and name me a fool for how I have acted. Her eyes were burning a hole inside my head and made me bow.

My mother lacks any command. Soft weak wrong. Her approval is not temporary to regain. It was always lost.

And it should be _meaningless_ anyway.

All I earn is ignorance.  
She doesn't see beyond my skin and the clothes covering it. I might as well still sit in a house far away, waiting for a dead husband to return from a war zone.

I might as well be in that cell, walls fueled with blood like Arven's. Silent stone binding me.

I only silently glare at her, rustling hem over the carpet as she steps over to my father.

"You were gone for so long, " Her hand is the veteran hand of a musician with clean, short nails. When she bridges the gap and touches my shoulder I want to break free immediately.

"It is late. But we should all have dinner together this week."

If she thinks this changes anything she is wrong.

"Yes, and don't forget to invite my husband and Arven too," I mutter thin-lipped, chin up high.

"I would love to," She says, still holding onto me. Not even blinking different. Doe eyes gazing at me but not reaching anywhere.

I forgot how my parents are. My father is not faultless but he is not as oblivious and _frustrating_ to deal with.

I wind back and snake out of reach to escape her touch.

"There is a matter of importance to deal with," My father saves me.

I curl my hands to fists.

"I assume you will leave again soon, yes?"

"Shortly," He holds her hand in between his palms with the same longing his eyes expressed earlier. Wrapped around her finger literally. I feel sick. "But I hope to return for dinner tomorrow. We have some things to catch up on. Your letters were scarce."

"I didn't assume you would want to know that I rescheduled my practice hours or my paperwork. "Just a faint trace of a smile on her face. "And I was sure you knew everything about the explosions and attack."

Their voices echo through the wounded parts of my brain with force, replacing a crescendo of strings.

This isn't home any more than the house with the steep staircase.

This isn't part of the content memory of family and duty Samson has extracted from my brain when he tried to shuffle through anything useful.

When I whistle, dog paws click eagerly on the parquet and I am followed up the stairs in a flurry of wagging tails.

My old room is untouched and laid bare. I hear birds chirping through the walls. One repeats some melody it has likely picked up from those duets.

The view used to be nice. Watching city lights sparkle in the dark. Now it is nothing more.

I close the curtain.

On the clean dark sheets dusted with little particles from the lack of usage lies a letter and a bundle tightly tied. I pick it up. One of the dogs sniffs interested.

I scratch it between its ears while reading.

Instructions, valid and brief, coupled with the formalities of being appointed an official post.  
Promoted, one could say, as my father did.

The prospect is expected.

I probe and glare at the clothes.

The uniform doesn't differ too much from my attire throughout the month.

The jacket is less high on the collar and shoulders, and instead of my critters crawling over green and black indicate my house in their color. It should fit good enough, a little loose on the sleeves and waist maybe.

Sturdy pants, same repetition.

I make a note for more exercise than the bare minimum and more food. I can't afford to stay like this if I am to serve in a manner that requires me regularly physical.

There's room for improvement.

There always is when you strive for perfection.

Being small is the bane of my existence. In my heels at least I can pretend some form of height, and my clicking follow people around so they can never pretend not to notice.

Now though they'll be gone for good and I will have to compensate my lost inches of height by puffing out my chest and keeping my back arched.

The hard boots at least make it easier to run and kick. I like both of those things.

The dogs serve well for the rest of the intimidation. Their teeth can pull through fabric, flesh and protection to some degree. I keep them tied to me, but they still snarl and sniff, cautious.  
They are mine and mine alone.

It feels right.

And that is how it should be.

I deserve this.

I deserve even _more_ than this.

And the most important thing: I will not let anyone make me do things. I will reach whatever I have to on my own. I am not the whisper's servant.

Unfortunately, though, I am still his wife. But he won't dare with my parents and Arven around, and he won't dare as soon as I stick closer to my cousins.

The pack continues to be gathered around me as I descend down the stairs.

My father stands in front of the flickering screen in the living room. Similar to the one in the summer residence, but even bigger, it sprays the darkness with light.

He is pale but concentrated. When I enter with the pack, a figure ushers outside. I can't make out colors. Another henchman, another promise, another command?

My mother is nowhere to be seen anymore.

"At the right time." His ringed hand waves me in. I hurry up. "Another speech to cater to the masses. To make sure there are enough words circulating that can dampen the whole affair. Great reassurances."

I study the faces I have seen on screen and in the Hall of the Sun. Through my spiders and bugs, and with my own set.

The camera pans a moment.

I can only glare at the glimpse of the whisper Queen and her son without much effect.

And then there's the lightning girl.

Runt growls low. She bristles from tail to snout under the weight of my own feelings.

Not the worst moment to use her. Let her speak in front of a camera where every word is obviously drafted to fit.

Still a cheap row of words. Obviously lies.

Maybe we are all just mouthpieces, one way or another, because we serve a cause, or because we have to follow rules.

Curfew and execution, guards and security alerted. And drafted and conscripted to push and fight in a warzone at 15.

Money offered in exchange for handing out rebels.

I think about a brown-eyed boy holding a spider again.

Sigh low.

"Do you have something to note, Daliah?" My father asks.

"No. Reasonable promises and attempts to capture murderers, terrorists and stabilize whatever is left of Norta before it crumbles from inside, I guess."

I earn a nod before we continue to stare at the faces.

"Long live the king," the girl says.

And then the message cuts off and repeats in a loop. The king on the podium now. Right back where it started.

We don't go to sleep after that. We just sit huddled in the darkness and drink wine, watching the polluted night sky that sizzles with electric lights.

"I don't understand how you can stay so calm while Arven walks around like it is his home and his wife." I cling to One Ears fur with my fingertips in desperate need to stay composed by now. The dogs know. They have curled around me protective again. "This should have ended a long time ago. Just to ruin both of them and get you free. "

My father shrugs. Drinks from his glass. It is his second glass wine while I only sip on my own.

The pin on his chest glitters in the light.

"There always was space for paramours and lovers as long as people involved did their duties. You're too young to actually remember too much about the former kings paramour Robert. Not that it matters. As I said. As long as duty is your primary care."

My father obviously wonders if he should talk further.

"The scandals lay somewhere else when this whole affair started. I feel old thinking about how much time has passed. No one would waste a blink for your mother when there was a much bigger target to gossip and speculate."

One ear sneezes. Runt waggles forward to my fathers legs and is happy to receive a pet on the back of her grey fur.

I look around. Tilt my head.

"Are we talking about Coriane Jacos here?"

The dogs between us wince and whine low. He doesn't look at me, shadows dancing over the window and below our faces.

"Careful where you choose to say that name. Even after all that time."

I huff out a breath of air.

"I trust you not to snitch one me for that matter, father."

My voice is dry and he raises his eyebrows amused.

"Love overruled duty in that case," My father pats Runts head. "No Queenstrial, only a Queen. Who'd talk about a woman of low noble blood by then, putting horns on her husband, when everyone questioned that decision? A future king is to be wed out of necessity and not out of love. And when she died...well."

_When she was dead we got the whisper queen, and that's all I dare to think about this, knowing I will be under watch soon enough again._

"Oh well, to Queens then," I empty my glass.

"To Queens, and Kings," My father agrees, drinking himself. "And whoever else holds strings of fate and power."

"Diplomatic as always," I compliment.

Something frail stands between us again. "Knowing when to speak and when to be quiet is more important than money sometimes."

If only he knew.


	35. Bequeath

_bequeath  
_

_-to give or leave by will, used especially of personal property_

_-to hand down : transmit_

* * *

**_T_** he dogs huff and twitch in their sleep. Once, One Ear howls high, a short, excited sound, and his paw twitches. Dreaming about running, most likely. I keep myself where I am, just a moment longer. I lie awake in the darkness, between soft warm bodies taking every bit of space in the bed.

My father is right. I sometimes spoil them. At this rate, they might get soft on their old days, always getting petted and coddled. But I rather have a shield of animals loyal around me in my sleep than any human being that might attack me.

Never have been one to sleep too long, the paranoia and my perfect honeymoon have only sharpened the way I lay awake and listen, and never really sleep in my free time except for the absolute needed part and the way I drift off if I am sure I am safe.

I send the dogs off when I have to pry myself from their bodies rolled together around me. Inside the room that was once mine, when I was just a girl, I stare at the gilded curtains, the small traces of what is left of my youth. It has faded and been given up for a while. Even though nothing has changed, it is dusted and unkempt. I can tell my mother didn't care for it very well. And my father always is away, he has no time for interior.

A lonely creature buzzes on the doorknob, races against the window with a smash of a chitin body, cracking with black legs. Then it buzzes off into the ceiling, next to the flickering light I have turned on.

A fly on the wall.

A peculiar saying.

As someone proficient in controlling organisms and life forms, a fly wouldn't be my first choice to use for anything else than unnerving someone. A fly makes a mediocre vessel and spy for me.

I get dressed without giving it another look. Hair up, tightly wrapped at the back of my head, no chance to escape. It tingles harshly on my scalp, but that tension only reminds me I am alone inside the mind hiding behind it. I rip and tug at myself, as usual, to get the well-controlled image I want to have, behind layers of clothing and the smallest touch to my face. Barely enough to conceal the circles under my eyes.

The fly lands on the mirror in front of my burning eyes.

A fly on the wall...a viper, a scorpion, a widow. A wife, a daughter, an ally, an enemy.

For a moment, the world crashes before my eyes. I feel my hands start to shake on the buttons of my uniform, and my fingers linger around one, almost rip it off because of my cramped, tightened grip.

I shouldn't be nervous. This is one step in the direction of what I deserve.

At the same time, I can't forget the threat, the offer, the pressure.

What happens when I have to decide and make a clear move?

The question doesn't leave me, now less than ever.

My pulse rushes. The room around me shakes in the weak lights from the lamp above my head. Downstairs, somewhere, the dogs bark and another startled animal answers, until the whole house is alive with the sounds of creatures. The cries and howls, barks and screams are like the thoughts battling themselves behind my brow.

I shouldn't be anything and everything at once. but sure enough, I fall through the cracks of what I have to become and what people want me to be.

Suddenly I wish I had a whisper in my head telling me what to do.

_Wouldn't he be happy to know I miss him sniffing around my brain and steer me?_

As fast as the thought comes to me, the faster I want to hit myself. Vile acid rises in my veins.

The tumor that has started to grow in the back of my head since the day I watched him in the arena is freezing me.  
Polite kisses and harsh, cruel bruises, too soft arms and hands touching my battle wounds and whispering into my ear how weak and pathetic I am without him.

A single dark flower in a glass vase on my table. A dance whirling in death.

I can barely stop myself from hitting something now, hands ripping at my collar, adjusting it. The anger helps me to push through.

_My hatred is a waste of time, dear husband? If you knew._

I can't have doubts. I can't be weak. I can't bend under pressure again. Can't faint now. It isn't a training room anymore, and I can't, can never, afford to lose a grip on myself or any other secret I hold so heavy and hard in my fingers.

The things you say and do are different in every regard to what you feel in this world. If I could act like I feel I would leave a spree of terror in silver. Instead, I live with them, sleep in a room too close to them. I breathe with them, and I keep their secrets for myself. Mostly.

The fly drifts closer again.

"Enough of this," I mutter to myself, taking a breath and leaving the room. My schedule is tight, my talents are asked for.

Enough of all of this thoughts taking too much space. I am better than this. I have to be.

I lift my arms, slightly, and my critters rise from across the walls. I feel them, jittery in their boxes and cages.

The spiders softly creep from their places as I walk. Small ones, tiny, pinpoint heads, settling on my skin like the armor I don't have. My leaping spiders rushing up my head, hairs caressing my cheeks, touching my eyelids like a gentle kiss.

My loyalty will always lie by the ones that have build me to what I was before they tried to break me. I can never repay Larentia, but I have to try. All my little notes may be seemingly asinine, about dresses and birds, but she is smart enough to get some value. I only wish I could tell her the rest as well. Especially now, that I am hurrying to catch up with my father for the last goodbye before we part.

"Power and Strength, Daliah Viper," he mutters, and I let him touch my face, shortly. "Our people are versatile. We are survivors. Do what you have to. If you need anything, come to me. I will try and give it to you."

It is some kind of absolution from someone that doesn't know I am too deep in the misery of a play.

"Power and Strength," I answer quietly, standing as tall and straight as I can, already practicing for what is to come. "And I will."

And with that, I leave him. Leave the mansion, that quiet island in safety. All my spiders rustle and sit tightly on me.

I go where my cousin goes. A Viper for a Samos. And everyone is fine with this because they all hope to get something from it.

My cousin waits for me, a moment to steal alone. And I steal gladly. We haven't had much chances to even talk.

At first, we look at each other like strangers.

"You shouldn't have come to pick me up," I say, bowing my head. "I should come to _you_ , Ptolemus. I do know my way around."

"I know what you're doing," he answers, and his eyes pierce through me a moment before I catch myself. "You're not half as sly as you think you are. And I hope you are careful."

I have to look up to him and try to keep a straight face.

"Did you talk to your sister?"

"Why? Did she threaten you to be careful too?"

_You don't know what I am doing, and I hope you never will._

"Some things don't change, I see. I am a grown woman, I need to handle life, even if you're my superior," I scoff softly before I feel the way my stomach drops. Because he still watches me. He came to me. And I lie in his face as best as I can. I even try to appeal to what little is left of our relationship. I am still not too sure how much he buys my words. He isn't stupid. Not at all. "Don't tell anyone that I am terrified of failing you. It can be our secret. Like the time I stole the gun."

The girl I was remembers. The boy he was remembers the day as well.

Hands clenched around a gun tightly, and a boy with silver-grey hair waiting for her to pull the trigger after a round of daring. And then the girl would aim absolutely horrendous, even if she knew better so that the bullet could never hurt him. Even if he could bend metal around with his will and a flicker of a hand. Even if it meant acting like she didn't do it on purpose.

The part that almost cracked in front of the mirror is now reaching out, into the outer world. It wants any kind of reassurance and connection. I hate it. It feels wrong and weak.

"I am very glad you're not dead," I say as soon as the thinking about the silver blood on my hands, my knees, my shaking hands and his dark eyes barely opening with a hiss.

I can feel the way his shoulders move in surprise. I'm not a very physical person. I never was. I can count the times I have hugged both Ptolemus and Evangeline on one hand.

But his grip is tight on me, reaching easily around. The metal on our uniforms tangles a moment. It is just a very quick embrace, a very short moment.

* * *

I gave a spider to a red boy as a goodbye gift. I give another one away now, to a silver prince, in the safety of unkempt moments this day, half-hidden between statues, in the dead corner between two cameras. It's quiet and fast. We don't have too much time to have a heartfelt conversation. Nor do I want to. We threaten and help each other for our own benefits, and I don't want to be friendly to him.

"She'll sit hidden, she's tame, and she also doesn't need to eat too much," I promise. "No poison pincers today, prince. But it makes things easier to communicate the next days. I am sure you see that."

And we both know I will be around, somewhere, lurking in between security and sentinels. At least partially. As I said. My schedule is tight. And I am not a personal guard and overseer for him. The reason I am in Whitefire and not down trailing the bridges and the squares is just easy. An easy excuse found in the fact that everyone sooner or later has to go to Whitefire. Too much of our administration and politics are settled here.

"It makes it easier for you to watch," he corrects me. His slender, pale fingers are fearless turning the spider around. I remember how Heron shrugged disgustedly every time they ran over my body, and how Samson always plucks moths and spiders out of my hair and around him when I tried to set them on him in the house.

"You want me to cover for you?" I mutter as low as I can. "I should know what I have to do and where you are. You aren't my only worry here."

"It's good enough, for now, when you have to be around," Maven's blue eyes study the spider more interested than anything else before it runs over his sleeve.

"For now," I repeat, huffing softly. "Don't hurt my spider. Or I'll take care there is some poison next time. No matter what they'll do afterwards to me."

"You're relentless, Lady Viper," he answers, with some hollow light inside his face, hidden behind sharp cheeks and lips pressing together. Not smiling, not twitching.

We stare at each other again without any false pretense and polite masks. I remember the valuable information my husband let slip while he controlled me. How he thinks about tools and vessels, and how he categorized both me and Maven as just that in the lights of power and control.

"Don't compliment me," I shake my head. "I don't like flattery. Especially not from someone that would lie about everything if it helps him out."

_I know something about you, Maven Calore, even if there's still gaps in the behaviour patterns to fill._

"A thing we have in common." He gives the spider one last look before it gently crawls into the pocket he holds open with his hand.

I have to agree with that. I would rather bite my tongue off than say it. His eyes graze my face, study it just like he studied the spider.

"I see why Samson has developed a slight obsession for you."

I want to shake my head, but I don't.

"What would you know about obsession?"

Maven turns his eyes away. He leaves that question unanswered, then he leaves me behind, my spider safely in his pocket.


	36. Vary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Readers! I am writing four stories at once so if this lacks something or I fall into bad habits again I apologize and be sure, this will go through revision just as the start of this story already has. But I finally want to end the first part before this year ends, at least...

_vary  
_

_-to make a partial change in **:** make different in some attribute or characteristic_

_-to exhibit or undergo change_

_-to exhibit divergence in structural or physiological characters from the typical form_

* * *

_**I**_ t turns painfully obvious how I need to pull myself together in a group.

I was taught to take it all first, and then I was shunned and exhibited as a bad example. Something like that makes you crooked, and no one should ever wonder I choose to act like I conform, when in truth everything I do is taking a calculated risk, keeping the appearance upright.

On the outside, I do nothing but serve. I listen to commands and stand as straight as I can. My name is washed off all accusations and I have been reestablished amongst them. But that doesn't mean people love me or synergize well as we comb through the capital.

I could never rely on any of the Vipers left in my proximity to moving in patterns alongside me that didn't incriminate or insult me the last months. And even now, that they need to heed my presence...The people I am with now are all instances above my position. Even with my father taking temporary hold of the control.

Most of them know my face. Some have seen me the last month. I didn't get a ghastly nickname and a story filled with gossip as an extra to it without reason. Some surely remember me from the very loud and obvious attempt to jump in a valued militaries figures face.

Strange to know she will never be mentioned again. Only in small pity for the loss, and the bickering about who will fill in her stead and position.

The memory of my name as her last word is a jewel that I hide in my chest, hoping to keep it safe, hoping to be able to admire it later, even if it doesn't give me...really, anything. It still seems all very surreal that she is gone after I gripped and harbored my thirst for her blood for so long.

_Ellyn is gone. She is gone. I survived her. Against all odds.  
_

_Ellyn, my dearest, most hated. A woman that regretted loving me._

I perfectly understand that sentiment of regret. I am very glad I don't know how love works, and I will be forever grateful that I never have fallen sick to it.

No, I have my side, I am all alone, and it will stay that way.  
I work best alone- or as alone as one can be with the head half controlling animals and half being controlled by a mind reader.

Another of too many reasons I struggle to be part of a group.

I'm not the only woman, but I still stick out. I am smaller than most of them, thin and easily to underestimate in comparison to some of the men.

I have to look up to Ptolemus and just as the night of the shooting, I have to crane my neck up to look at Prince Tiberias when he is close. And have I ever hated being close to someone that constantly reminds me of war, my dead husband and everything associated with it.

The dogs rustle in between me, my spoiled, old friends, in a complete modi of chasing again. The friendliness has vanished from their rigid bodies, and the mass of their force, their teeth and muscles surround me when none of the others accompanying me do.

Battle Scar growls low most of the time. Runt sniffs the hand of the Prince, and he lets her. Her nose moves up and down, over the back of a hand that's littered with tiny scars, to the edge of a silver bracelet that produces a spark. A spark that can easily turn into a devastating flame and hurt her. Just as I told Maven he should not try to hurt my spider, I watch my dog very cautious now.

Runt sniffs once more. Eyes him cautious.

He leans down, slightly, still hand outstretched. Says something, low, but not insulting, more inviting.

Runt's grey tail wags violently in expectation.

She makes a low sound, and her brothers accept her judgment. Battle Scar stops growling and joins in on surrounding him. Two big dogs in grey and brown surrounding someone likewise keeping scars in a red glinting uniform.

I am unpleasantly fazed by the realization the dogs actually like him, trying to stay as poised and polite as possible.

I whistle and they retreat slowly.

"Apologies," I say, thin-lipped. "They can be enthusiastic when they aren't focused. I hope you didn't say the word treat in front of them."

He still looks at me with that expression of pity in his eyes. I think about the talk I had with my father, about Kings, Queens, and Coriane Jacos, his dead mother. It seems absurdly obvious now to see between the similarities that he and his brother are not comparable at all.

_Or are they?_

Tiberias Calore obviously isn't aware of any deals I have made with his brother Maven. Not regarding the identity of the girl and her uncanny red blood able to contain lightning. Not about the victims of the so called sun shooting. Not of anything that my husband has bargained out with the Whisper Queen and whatever underlings they have creeping around.

I lose myself a second in that observation, studying the line of his face, the dark hair, try to see anything else than that fallible pity that irritates me. And low interest.

"What if I did?"

A moment I think he has read my thoughts. But no, no whispers here. Just my paranoia. It is still about the treats.

As the dogs retreat with friendly excitement for Tiberias Calore, one of the smaller, black eight-legged spiders creeps up the shell of my ear. It rests on my neck, above the black collar of my own uniform.

I meet with one brother to stake out red rebels. And with another to buy him time being in cahoots with them, use them for something.

One for the dogs, one for the spider. And me in between.

"Well, then expect begging and puppy eyes the next time they see you are alone," I give one single pointer with my finger, not even slipping in to hold their mental leashes. They sit down expectantly, waiting again. Whatever excitement they had, they are back to the focus fast. And keep it this time, hopefully.

The way this city is constructed always amazes me with something I didn't know about its layout. We circle down, low flying over the streets.

The dogs stand attention in the hostile way they always do since they have grown up, trained for the taste and smell of blood.

At one point, One Ear picks up a scent, a slight familiar trail. Surrounded by buildings, looking over to the rest of the black-clad figures, I stop.

Everyone notices my limbs freezing before I do.

"-Viper?"

One Ear sniffs over the ground, stretches into the air, with me searching for support, slipping inside a dog skin.

We hunted through the night twice in a forest, at the edges of a village held by stilts.

As the dog moves, I slowly do too. I act as if nothing has happened. A hiccup, nothing more. Or can that actually be? Would it be so implausible to believe that someone has followed up?

The trail is so slight it gets lost in the crowd fast, locked in between the sensations that linger in the air of a city as big and the water running down the bridge close by.

I hold a respectful distance, but something strange happens. My cousin waits for me to catch up. Our feet stomp next to each other when we continue to walk. I almost tell him. _Almost._

It is because there is a slight sliver of respect in his dark eyes when he looks at me.

I carry on the rest of the day right behind Ptolemus' frame, half-hidden between a pack of dogs and a magnetron that knows my finger lingers over the trigger of a gun my father gave to me, avoiding more than simple 'Yes' and 'No' answers. Questioning how to proceed and what to do. Questioning my various loyalties and dishonest promises.

* * *

My spider picks up with the other Calore when I breach the edges of Whitefire in the late night, half in disarray, a little sweaty, hair curling in the wind.

I have come to pick my father up, a good enough excuse to move relatively unscathed.

The spider is sitting in a glass. When I slip into it, far enough away to be inconspicuous in my actions, I see the warped, faint silhouette of a very sober bedroom.

The eyes of the spider lock onto the only moving thing in the room. One brown-haired leg taps against the glass screen.

Maven puts down a piece of paper he has been apparently reading.

The spider taps again. Moves the leg. And waits until the lid is removed to move out, slipping, fighting, until the leaping jump onto the wood beneath the glass is made.

"I have nothing to tell you, Lady Viper, but I hear you are very busy hunting through the city with your cousins and my brother," he says, voice low. The hairs of the spider move, feel the air. He is a shadowy frame in the moving sets of the focusing eyes.

"I hear tomorrow is your big day. Help us both. Buy me some more time."

The spider rubs its legs together, threatening. A pair of blue eyes blinks unimpressed.

"I don't expect you to ruin your chances. But I need it tomorrow, at least. If you find anything too fast, that wouldn't be ideal for me. Or for you."

The spider taps in agreement.

* * *

The last addition to my troubles is a black-dressed figure sneaking back into the capital. Or so I assume at first.

Loren has come back to the Viper mansion. He doesn't talk to anyone, straight rushing to a room after his arrival. His smug face is beaten to something that struggles to contain a certain kind of emotion. An impact.

Grief? No. It is _fear._ I can see it in the way he turns grey now that my father sits on the chair, and now that he is a step farther from what people always promised him.

I don't intend to come too close to him if I can avoid it. My feelings for him have not changed a bit. They never will.

I harbor them just as Ellyn's death and all the other injustices and crimes, secrets and lies, inside my chest.

In the pink light, the wind turns cold on my face in front of the window. I sit silently.

Under the wings of a bird, the wind soars and the world rushes by.

The tail feathers stand up, fight the wind a moment, steer the body. Then the wings flap again, strong muscles and a light skeleton. Birds are creatures built to conquer the air, I feel it in the way the creature moves, all the while I sit in front of the open window without seeing anything. It is strangely exciting but very different from any bug or insect I usually control. It isn't at all like a spider, not like a snake. Atara has educated her friend on birds as Heron has educated her on plants in between the gossip. She knows more about birds than I do.

Just a second I pretend I am above it all.

That I am the mistress of Archeon, that I own all of the buildings, stone on stone.

That the wind sings my name over the bridges.

I am feather and beak, I am reigning, I don't have to care about results, about circling streets.

A pair of eyes slide back and forth, blinking in the sliding manner that is the way of birds.

I look at the tiny streets below through the eyes as it lands on a chimney.

The crow rattles its throat before it descends in a spiral through a cloud of smoke, studying the huddled over forms down on the plaza. Even with the eyes of a crow, I can tell them apart by misery and caution alone in this early hours of the morning.

Flocks, the brain of the crow helps me sort. And it is right, what are red and silver but different breeds, different flocks? And doesn't the world always tell us we will never be the same?

The flickering message on the screen in the middle of a night, a girl reading from a paper someone put in her hand, talking about measures, acting like she is one of us. But oh, do I know she is not.

The crow rises again, flapping wings, returning to me. It is a perfect balance of flight and fall until the body sinks on my outstretched, gloved hand.

Someone knocks on my door. Another tiny sliver of respect. Very much appreciated. And it is locked regardless of the knock.

Bird on my gloved hand, I step over to the door.

Loren has his head pulled in, neck and shoulders pulled together. He waits, careful. Nothing is left anymore from the Loren that watched me leave the summer residence smug on my unwelcome wedding day.

"Birds are useful, but I will never favor them," I give the bird a small smile, not very sweet, teeth gritted, thinking about Atara on the other side of the country. It isn't the crow's fault that something in me feels vile and sore when the mental image of Atara rises in my head. A flower and a green dress, a talon clasped around her throats, harsh tongue spouting words at me. "Who'd have thought I would say it. But I miss your sister. She always could attract and use a whole swarm of them easily."

"Small wonders do happen," he comments, a slim bit of mock. Weak, really.

The bird croaks. It tilts the head, feathers fluttering. I ponder about the blood that binds me, the promises made, by me, by everyone else.

"What do you want, Loren?"

He almost winces. "I need your help."

"My help? It does seem like small wonders happen." I tell him, more mocking than truly surprised. His face gives him away since he has returned. "I am a very busy woman since your father died. Condolences, by the way. Come in. Lock the door."

"People give me condolences. But they give you congratulations. I never thought you'd survive one day in that house with the whisper." He sounds estranged by that mere thought.

"We never get what we deserve in life, Loren, it is an unfair challenge filled with blood and sweat, and the only thing you can do is struggle and stay alive," I shrug slightly, draw my shoulders together under the heavy fabric of my robe. "It is about time you learn that lesson."

"My father was just murdered, and I know for certain that your part of the family and your husband were involved."

And he thinks telling me this will achieve what exactly? He certainly has my attention. That much is sure.

I send the crow flying before I turn around to him. Pretty and pitiful. Useless and overconfident.

"And you were part of this agreement too. It is the reason he blackmailed you out of your cell. He needed to give something in exchange, beforehand. I am not sure what exactly was the reasoning beside some official agreement."

Just as I gritted my teeth for the bird and Atara, I have a barely concealed snarl for him. "I can tell you it wasn't about my lacking grace and beauty, at least."

"I want a deal with you. You never cared about your father or the rest of the family, and everyone knows you hated Merandus since you first met him. If you could change colors and stay away, you would."

_Whatever could I do now to him? Oh, the possibilities._

I have some questions, I have some things to learn. Even a moron gets valuable input, especially if others try to groom him, shoehorn him into a privilege he doesn't deserve. _  
_

_He looks like he expects me to hit him again, smash his nose in._

A part of me wants to laugh about the way he forces himself to be still. Trying so hard not to flinch when I slowly pull the glove from my hand and carelessly discard it. It flies through the air and lands on the bed, barely, slipping half off and almost rolling to the floor. _  
_

Loren takes a strangled breath opposite of me. "What do you want, cousin?"

"Some answers. Some help, tomorrow, when I have to map a very intricate system of tunnels poisoned by radiation with the help of my critters and impress my cousins and whoever else is watching."

But another thing first... and it is overdue.

"Right now I only want one small thing, to see if you mean it."

I cross my arms in front of my robes, and Loren stands in waiting, pale and grey in the light polluting the room through the open window and swaying curtains.

The words have been sitting in the back of my head for a while, and I taste them on my tongue like the good vintage of a wine. "Kneel, Loren Viper."


	37. Descend

_descend_

_-to pass from a higher place or level to a lower one_

_-to pass by inheritance_

_-to swoop or pounce down (as in a sudden attack)_

* * *

_**I**_ t takes two or three hours until Loren and I leave the Viper mansion. The sun has barely risen, the world is caught in the leftover dusk, scattered greyness that splinters around in shadows and leftovers.

No one picks me up this day. I didn't expect it, to be honest. I can't hope to deceive people with a hug every day of my life. Imagine that. Ridiculous, and very straining probably.

My body buzzes with different kinds of life, hiding on the metal attached to the black uniform, slinging around my throat, woven in my hair. I am the mother of wildlife, with all the sirring, buzzing and hissing, and three dogs as well as a black-clad, unobtrusive Loren in the back.

My own little procession. Of course, no one actually takes too much note in the bustling, busy streets.

No cheering crowds and flowers for Daliah Viper today. Oh well, who needs celebrations.

All celebrations in my life have been to my demise in the last years. I watched people get their share on a sightline and wanted to trip them or step on the hems of their dresses. And when I did get to be the center of attention, it didn't end very well.

Some other day, maybe. Maybe when I marry a third time.

The thought has something highly amusing and rather satisfying. Because it means the current husband would be dead by then.

I smile, a little, for myself, while I walk.

The presence of silver combing through the city has increased again.

I watch the different types of uniforms, the different kinds of guards, sentinels, city watch, soldiers.

One thing we all have in common no matter the kind of uniform: We are all fighters, somehow, at least. Even if the thought of soldiers burns in the backside of my brain with dislike.

_War makes widows, after all._

And I know for sure that the younger Prince is up and around today.

I am unsure what exactly he is doing. Is he waiting for someone? Most likely, given the fact I did smell something familiar. Something red. In the woods and then right up the streets yesterday.

It also is apparent he waits for someone in the way he proposed the fact to me that the Guard got to remove some people at the Ball, including Macanthos. And my cousin. We still have an unresolved argument about that, and I haven't forgotten that he removed that part of the information and deal so I would even agree.

He wants me to buy him time for some kind of interaction he still waits for, no other way around to see it.

The sounds of the animals grow angry a moment. Fluttering wings, tickling legs, growling throats.

My feet move faster until I almost run. They scrape over the stone, but without heels, there is not the clicking I am so used to listen to.

I don't forget if someone wrongs me. Maven should know that. He should be very, very careful. Even if his mother makes my head explode or does terrible things to me in the aftermath, no one can resurrect the dead, and oh, will he be dead if he lies to me again so deliberately.

I should set someone on it to report back to me if my eyes are busy today. But I am also very cautious if I have to get too close to either the whisper Queen or my husband. Who is suspiciously absent these last days. I expected him to boast around, threaten and try to give commands where he isn't welcome. I even expected him lurking around me. If only because Maven's words about obsession have reinforced the threat he made before we parted.

_**Don't try to be brave or stupid. I watch you. You know I can just take you and everything I want.** _

Just in case someone is indeed watching me, I throw my head back and walk as straight as possible, face unreadable, procession still following me.

Lady Viper doesn't know fear. Not on her big day.

People have made fun of me for my choice of specialization. Now, who is laughing?

In the distance below the bridges, a bigger procession than mine has gathered to track and explore a place I have never even dreamed of entering before.

It already smells different from the center or the streets leading up the hills. At the water, there is always the whiff of mud, fish tainted, rotting mud and moss. The dogs are getting jumpy. They love the new sensations, already trying to filter through them, their song of scents.

"You know where to go. I want you to stay here and keep a close look at the entrances. Whoever enters or turns, whoever seems suspicious. Can you do that?"

Loren creeps below my right shoulder, still not exactly back to his old self. "Yes, Daliah."

"It's Lady Viper," I correct.

"Yes," he grits his teeth, something burning behind his cheeks. "Lady Viper."

I nod. Then I decide to risk something.

"Wait," I stop him, voice very, very low. His eyes narrow. "While we are at it. Watch someone else for me. Two people, to be fair, but they'll most likely be close, given their social relation. It won't be hard to find them."

"I can't trust any of them, that is why I chose to come to you," he presses his lips together, unwilling to show too much emotion again.

"Who says something about trust? We don't trust each other, we just made an agreement," I scoff softly at the sheer thought. "Get one of the other animosi you believe aren't going to run to my father or anyone else. Promise them something they would like. Maybe Sentinel Viper. Don't mention my name, though."

A short nod. A few more words, and Loren retreats.

I can count the faces and sort them right in as I walk away and leave my pitiful cousin behind.

Not a dozen anymore, but vastly more black-clad figures of all different kinds. I oogle the Irals in the group very careful, and I see at least one look acknowledging me back. I am the only Viper.

Easy to make out Prince Tiberias again, slightly tense in red instead of black. Just like the last time, the dogs are friendly and attentive towards him. One friendly, small-sized wag of a tail as a greeting.

"Apologies, I was held off by the family." I give in and bow a little.

Two very familiar frames with silver-grey hair are flanking the prince.

They look over to Loren creeping around like a worm. He called me a maggot once. Look who is acting like a downward dirty small creature now. Even below the grace of any of my insects.

I sigh and straighten up, life still buzzing wildly on my skin and hair.

"How'd you do it?" Evangeline asks when I close up to the group, eyes grazing Loren's form with a razor-sharp look.

"Do it?" I ask her, respectful. My hands tremble slightly.

Evangeline sees it. She sees my gloved hands curling together to hide it. Her eyes move back down into darkness below and the streets above.

I am not scared, or nervous right now.

I am filled with excitement, and I know, as soon as I run, as soon as WE run, I'll feel the adrenaline, the rush of the hunt. Even that is just a small reward, one I will gladly take.

"Loren," she shakes her braid. "Humbled. How many bones in his body did you break?"

"I broke his nose and pretty face to pieces. In my defense, he had a knife at point against Atara," I explain, dogs snarling and excited around us. Technically, I won't lie to Evangeline. "I thought that was appropriate. You're not going to tell me I shouldn't have done it, are you?"

I think about us both on the shooting range. Her question about the Vipers seems more appropriate than ever now.

"No," Is her only answer.

And then, the time for any kind of small talk is over, and we're descending down, marching in order. The entrance is small, walls of stone leaking water above our heads, a hole in the ground. Enough space to squeeze into. I'm lucky enough it isn't that steep. I don't want to leave the dogs behind.

A part of me imagines the uncounted entrances around the city that are even smaller holes, and it isn't hard to imagine a scrawny frame pushing down some ladder and entering here. No wonder that in the end, the traces lead here. It is a smart decision to stake this system out.

There is just a faint glow of light behind me, small rays scorching through the tunnel as we move. I take a breath of dusty air mixed with sewage.

"How far does it even reach?" I mutter next to Ptolemus shoulder.

 _Buy me time,_ Maven said. It seems unnecessary now.

"Very far," is the only answer I receive. Below and above our feet, small pieces of iron rust in the light. I can't imagine how it feels to know how everything is filled with metal like blood in veins. Evangeline narrows her eyes looking around as well. "Too far."

My throat hums low when I take another breath.

The dogs usher around, nose on the ground.

The spiders crawl away from my body, one lonely moth that dangled on my tied-back hair flutters low. All of them move along the brittle stone and the dirty, muddy ground riddled with little pieces of the corroding walls.

I feel the vibrations, the low circulation of the air. The hairs rise and fall, move with the bodies disappearing into the darkness of a tunnel.

My brain tries to process the way they map the system. All I am is legs and eyes.

We don't move south at first. Understandably careful, radiation is nothing to joke about. Even then, we do have some detectors just in case. But no one wants to really provoke it. I am fine with that. Going into any direction is fine with me. I will simply produce a false trace if we ever come to close to anything. At least that is what I plan.

The dogs sniff and search, the legs crawl along. We have split up, scattered slightly, almost like some net, in the attempt to stop anyone from escaping, and I find myself squeezed in between Prince Tiberias and Evangeline. Squeezed in very literally at some part, when a bit of the old stones have broken out and down. A huge metal beam sticks out of the rubble and stone like the hand of a suffocating man in a grave, trying to dig free.

Evangeline has to do the heavy lifting there. Even though it isn't heavy for her at all. She bends and breaks the metal easily. The beam aches and cries before the way is free and only a small cloud of rubble is left in the air.

It is a lot of metal, come to think of it. Leftover and rusted where it sticks out of the air and has to fight the leaking water and decrease.

"No one ever has cared for this place?" I whisper, blinking against the cloud that slowly moves along the scarce flecks of light in this world of eternal darkness.

Runt and Battlescar paw at the ground, noses moving rapidly. One Ear is half shielding my body, but only lazy in between the frames left and right. The immediate danger, funny enough, isn't bigger here. I feel almost cozy in the darkness with the way the world sings to all my eyes and ears. If it wasn't for the still rather unpleasant smell.

"Always gone unnoticed," the Prince surprisingly answers the question. "And uncared."

A radio crackles weakly behind us, some voice from the outspread net we form keeping in touch.

We crane our necks in the half-light, stopping. It feels older than anything else, these leftovers from beyond time how we know and recall it.

"Strange," I whisper.

No one disagrees.

Because it is true. The darkness can do strange things to you. Sounds turn into loud, wild things that make you cautious. Everybody feels their blood in their veins and breath in their lungs.

The world above is gone, and in the below time flows differently.

I note the flow of the air, and here and there I suggest turns and note dead ends.

The hours sweep by blurry.

Suddenly the dogs paw again.

One Ear is frantic, smell overwhelming, through dogskin seeping into my brain, even with the overwhelming scent of the water above the walls.

 _I know that scent, I know it,_ he whines. And I can't hide his excitement even if I hide my interest.  
Heads turn to me.

"He has a trail," I simply say. That suffices to make them all alert.

They're like dogs themselves. Their heads turn like ears forward attentive. Their shoulders straighten. Their backs arch.

Everyone is ready for a chase.

My hand lowly glides over the gun at my side. I don't have metal to fling around or shoot fire with my mind.

A bullet does the same job just as well, though. And teeth hurt skin as much as a flame.

"Move," the Prince says, next to me, watching me and the dogs.

Swift and fast, the lot moves. The dogs fly through the tunnel. I give in and leap, as fast as my legs carry me.


	38. Eminence

_eminence_

_-a position of prominence or superiority_

_-one that is, prominent, or lofty: such as a natural elevation_

* * *

**_T_** he water drips down over us, thick heavy drops almost turned streams.  
We're moving closer to the river by now again, closer to the pits and holes opening up here and down into the ground. The smell of the water is almost overwhelming.

My own nose can't follow. The dogs, on the other hand, see that differently. I use my control to sharpen them, and they are a snarling mess of vicious teeth, whole body in motion.

I am not the queen of this hunt. With all the adrenaline that rushes and pounds through me, all the nerves fluttering alive, yelling at me that I am simply indestructible, I need to remind myself of that.

The dogs find a dead-end, circling and turning in confusion, and I see that half the search party is following while the other gets different commands. And the lot of them know what to do with commands. Even if I am not good in a group, the others make up for it.  
With force, something behind gets ripped apart. Rust flies onto the air, metal bends, falls, makes room to push further.

The dogs circle, trying to find the path of trails again, and I focus on helping them. It almost makes me fall into a slight hole in the ground, deep enough to probably break my ankles.

Evangeline's hand rips roughly at the back of my uniform and yanks me around harshly.

I see my cousin behind me, a shadow made of iron will and a pushing power that has probably just saved my life. Her hand retreats. I take a shaking breath, nod only once.

And here I promised to keep an eye out for her. She never needed it anyway. She's always been like this. She always beats and excels.

No, I am not the queen of this hunt. I breathe heavy, trying to hold the animals on tight leashes, feet crunching over the ground. Echoes wallow around me. The slightest movement is deadly loud now. Even with the swift feet some of us have.

The dogs find the trail again and they run, a snorting, huffing flesh machinery, born for this.

I am still a hunter. Not the prey. That suffices for now. Another surge of something viscerally alive seeps through me, and then I run again.

The small splotches of grey light come slowly as we emerge inside the tunnels.

The dogs curve around the corner and one of them growls. Runt has taken the front, One Ear and Battle Scar flanking and sniffing in chorus.

I am close behind them, and I still hold them tightly, feel the way their noses move and the sensations creeping along the marks of all the unknown and familiar scents.

 _Close, close,_ the pack -two legs, eight legs, four legs- sings.

Runt gives an alarm. A huff.

I fling myself around. Maybe ten feet away. Not even twenty. Someone moves.

The dogs sniff again, and I see her in the swallowing darkness. Female, some parts of my brain determine while the others fall into some fast steps again.

My hand glides down to my weapon. Twitches over the hilt of my gun. Away.

I can't shoot her. I wouldn't hit. Or I would probably kill her.

Something about her is strangely familiar. Even if nothing is out of the ordinary. She could be any of the red people rummaging through some mansion, residence, palace.

Her hair flies loose when she runs.

She is fast, very quick. But she can't outrun me, the dogs and the whole rest of the search party splitting around the tunnels in close proximity.

 _If I get her,_ a part of me ponders, hungry. _I could solidify any claim and position. No celebration for me. But some small boon of triumph should be allowed. Not only dogs deserve a treat.  
_

With everything I have, I sink into control over the dogs. I have never set them on a person before. Two chases in a forest and some training, yes. But this is the first time.

_This has to pay off._

A part of me wants to scream and crack, the one that doubted, the one that looked into a mirror and wondered if a whisper could steer me better than I do myself.

I suppress the part. I have done a decent job until now and I won't stop. I cannot afford to stop. Never.

And so I _don't._

One Ear is the weakest of the bunch, even if he isn't the smallest, but his nose has led us here.

Runt is the fastest. She is a broken, silver arrow in the darkness. Battle Scar follows behind her.

It is one human against two dogs, and me and One Ear coming after her as well. I blend out the rest of the scenery, try to not let her escape. Can't let her escape.

Runt tries to pull at her leg and drag her down. The Red doesn't give up without a fight. I feel a cutting pain, something that makes Runt cry in the front row. Something feels like it kicks me in the face. I almost go down by the sudden sensation that seems to break my nose and sight.

Battle Scar leaps, a massive coiling pulse of muscles. He snaps one of her arms, and the teeth sink into her skin. Her blood is red, mixing with the river mud, sliding in drops over the pavement. I taste it through my dog.

She hurt Runt. Battle Scar takes a good chunk out of her before she can writhe and fight in his grip. She half sits, struggling with everything. I see something glowing, and I know what will happen next.

I cut my leash to Runt and Battle Scar, strange pain fading.

Ten feet, again, seem too big of a distance for me, just as the crossing of the ballroom, I seem to be too slow.

I could send One Ear after her. But I don't want him to get hurt as well. And there is a ledge.

The maggot has probably used the small entrance above. That is why her trail has ended abruptly before. She climbed up and down again somewhere else.

I can smell her fear, and I still have the taste of her blood on my tongue.

What I see close up to my dogs only makes me angrier. Blood runs and crusts over the bridge of Runt's nose and eyes, grey fur washed in the color. She has been kicked very hard, and that _maggot_ of a human being has gouged at her eyes in the surprise. Her brother One Ear takes a second to surround her, low soothing and tongue licking.

Battle Scar has it worse.

"You poor thing," I mutter. He gives his best to sit, a brown and grey body littered with scars and blood, dragging himself over the ground. "No, no. You did well. It was me. It's okay."

I try to soothe him, hands touching him, just making sure it is not lethal and will kill him.

My gloved hands shake very, very hard. And it is not only the surge of adrenaline.

The girl, woman, whatever the red maggot is, she won't get away. Age doesn't matter. Not in this. Not in violence and wrath. Even our children get murdered, their children get murdered, and we all have grown up as soon as we emerged and got thrown into the wild world with all the rules. War makes widows and tosses bodies into holes without respect, in piles.

The holes here are smaller, and they are darker. The rest of the party has long gone by, right after her.

A swarm of angry silver is overwhelming. She won't escape.

I grit my teeth, stepping outside the tunnel, into the daylight again. The hours have dwindled by, the whole day gone.

I suppose I couldn't buy Maven more time even if he had wanted to. I hope it was worth it for him.

And I hope that moron Loren is still around in case anyone else was moving up and around.

As soon as I have that thought, something tugs at the leashes of the dogs. Above me, on the low rooftop overlooking the holes burrowed into the ground and the crumbling depths, I see the silhouette of a small, black dressed frame. He watches the hurt, limping dogs. I give him a small signal with my hand. The search party, the hungry, waiting pack, the swarm, they've taken the prey down.

Under all the blood and dirt, it is hard to see too much of the Red's face.

The dogs have left marks on her. But the wounds are not as bad as the swarm surrounding her now, the pack of vicious, deadly, black dressed silver soldiers and fighters. I am unsurprised to see my Samos cousins in the heavy of it. Doing the heavy lifting in the tunnels and the fight.

I know their drill. _I helped with it._ I know they're deadly.

Moving ever so slowly, my dogs and I make it , closer, studying the senseless struggling. I suppose it makes sense red rebels are tough. I couldn't care less about what she screams before she's silenced.

I want to kick in her teeth, some small payback for the damage on my dogs. But whatever I could do to her, it couldn't be worse than what will be inflicted on her soon.

They'll transport her somewhere, get all the information they want. With all the measurements necessary. Oh, they'll turn her brain upside down. She is the prize of this hunt, after all.

* * *

I let Loren take care of the dogs. I can't use them anymore if they are damaged and exhausted. He has surprised me with the offer of a report about the day as soon as we will meet up at the mansion again. Maybe he isn't so useless after all.

For the rest of the trip through the city, squeezed in a means of transport with people I don't know and don't trust, I hold my tongue.

We hobble and move up and down inside a few times on the way up. All in all, this could have gone better. But it also could have gone worse. I will have to work with what I am given.

And what I am given is the fact that we make a straight line back for Whitefire.

I hold myself in the background when we get out. I'm very sure that as soon as they had pinned the red maggot down, someone was notified up here.

Silver love celebrations. We love displays of power. We love demonstrations. This will be not private and small. This will be her end, and people will see that red head rolling banned on broadcast as soon as she has sung like a bird in the morning air.

Let's hope she doesn't sing about someone that can be connected to me. But that is almost absurd. Because even if I hate to be small and barely in charge of anything. This could help me. No one knows _I do know_ that the girl, princess and lady, betrothed to Maven, is a sham. No one knows I could have stopped the assassination at the Ball. No one knows about my involvement. Or about Samson in my head. At least no one that could have told the Red.

No one knows I just circled through tunnels until my dearest dog has smelled the scent of someone I could have taken as prize weeks ago, in another intricate system of tunnels made of trees and branches.

The eyes of the Irals are daggers the whole way back until we get out. I just smile for myself, smoothing over my gloves and uniform.

I hold myself back when the rest forms some formation. In the back is now exactly where I need to be. Inconspicuous.

In the middle of the group, Ptolemus kicks the Red out of the transport more than she ever moves herself. No one stops him. Prince Tiberias seems to try and not look too closely.

I feel a little satisfaction. A kick for a kick, and maybe even more. They drag her through the gates and doorways. Her feet scramble over the polished floors, leaving a trace of blood and dirt.

When she screams again, she gets silenced. Blood on her teeth as well.

I've been in a similar position when I was arrested for murder. My silence was made of stone, though. My screams and insults were laughter spilling like madness from my mouth.

And I did bite and kick the poor Officer that had to squeeze me inside the arrest cell instead of trying to squirm out of the grip on me.

I shake that off, moving my stiff shoulders. An unwilling reminiscence. I am off to a better state now.

Even with that similarity and differences, I was never dragged over a corridor like that, never into the midst of a room filled with faces scornfully expecting this arrival.

Even with the small window of time, whoever is in charge and has a name in our society is standing inside the rotunda of this room.

I hold my head high but my breath low when I pass Volo Samos first, then my father behind him, green eyes willfully worried as he always looks. But oh, do I know now thanks to Loren...this man and his secrets are a well. A murder and an agreement with Merandus, and Samson doing some dirty work for my sweet papa.

I continue to hold my head low when I pass King Tiberias first and then the Whisper Queen. Her blue eyes take everything in, soaking through my bones and making me remember pounding fear and paranoia. As always, the fear gets accompanied by the anger and vile hatred that tints everything inside me.

I don't see her son at first. Or the false Titanos. Then, just when I am about to cross to the back, carefully trying to stand at just the edge, behind Evangeline, I do see movement in the crowd.

Volo Samos sees it too. Both of them come to rest, stopping close by.

I tilt my head interested and watch their hectic eyes and attempts to keep straight.

See how the Prince doesn't stop touching her, hand right above her elbow, but not in a cruel way.

You don't touch someone like that just for play. I know about touching people for pretense, even if it never sat right with me. That isn't just it.

Interesting. And slightly confusing.

Well, that fills a missing piece of pattern in his behavior and reasoning. I will have to take that into consideration for later.

Everyone watches the procession that has marched into their midst.

_Welcome, red maggot, you are the center attraction now._

* * *

When the room empties, blood is spluttered over the seal of the crown in the rock and stone.

The Red is a corpse, the crowd is unsatisfied and angry. And the only person that waits for me is my father again. I can't wait for the check-in with Loren and the rest of all of this going by. But first...Maven surely has something to tell me now that the day is over. And my father is an obstacle in the communication process.

"No one checked her for a suicide pill." He sounds questioning, but not really angry. "A shame."

A shame, he says. Who knows. Maybe it is even better this way.

"Would you have?" I ask. "It isn't something that red people usually carry around."

He smoothes over his jacket and the Viper pin. Sighs.

"The rebels must've taken them from us in some thievery. Imagine what everyone would have heard from her if the Queen had gotten in her head."

I only hum low. Don't want to talk to him before I can't be sure to ask the right questions.

"The dogs got injured," I report instead. "I left them with Loren. So he can make himself useful while he is still around. I want to stay a while here and then I will follow you home. I need to consider some things I saw and did today."

At the mention of Loren something unrecognizable flickers over my father's face before he is his sorrow wrinkled self again, laying one hand on my shoulder.

"Good. And Daliah," he tugs one corner of his mouth up slightly. "You're doing remarkably well. I am proud of you."

I escape his grip, flinging myself forward a little. "Thank you, I am very aware I have to give my best impression for the sake of our House, father. I will not disappoint. Not again."


	39. Vice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter before shit goes down ayyy

_vice_

_1 - moral depravity or corruption **:** wickedness - moral fault or failing -a habitual and usually trivial defect or shortcoming_

_2 - a physical imperfection, deformity, or taint_

_3 - an abnormal behavior pattern in a domestic animal detrimental to its health or usefulness_

* * *

**_I_** reek of sewage and other things, still dragging myself through the illuminated, bright halls. Late evening, night, but it doesn't matter in the glittering world we have built.

Ara's people are getting on my nerves. They have glared at me, now they try to follow up and see why I still lurk around. And I can't have that right now.

It takes me time to get rid of them. Precious wasted time I spend sore and in bad mood.

The container with my spider has been moved from an obvious space on the table somewhere else. A piece of dark fabric is slung around it not very thorough, the world is half shadow and blurry forms through the screen of glass.  
My spider is desperately lost in the sleek surface. It takes me a moment to adjust. I make it crawl around, tapping with the legs.

When the glass gets lifted up and the fabric moves, the spider stares in a pair of cold, blue eyes, and the pale, sharp line of a female face surrounded by blond hair instead of dark.

"Lady Viper," she says. The hairs on my spider's legs move. Elara Merandus fingers are loosely cupping the spider in her palm, and I want to run, both as human and as a spider. "I always assumed our first real meeting would be different. But this will have to do then. We're all very busy. It has been such a straining day with so many twists and turns."

Straining is not the word I would have chosen.

"You are doing so well since you married Samson," she assures the spider. She smiles the way a glass shard may cut through your skin. "But I am very disappointed you never wore that dress I send you as a gift."

Her hand closes only slightly more around the spider. Not yet hurting. But firm.

"Your silence proves you are smart enough. And your cooperation is appreciated. I have other things to do than dig through your head as well. It is occupied anyway."

This is just in between the ears of a woman and a spider. No one will ever know this happened. I wonder what her son is doing. Undoubtedly progressing whatever plan is cooking. This plan seems to be a chemical bomb, an explosion bubbling, judging by the fact she lets him snoop somewhere. He said buy me time, and I can guess now he may not be the vessel Samson thinks he is, but he sure is a nice addition to tools.

"A few things you still need to do." She pats the spider's head with her sharp, clean nails, the metal of a gemstone ring scratching over the backside of my spider. "Some alone. Some...with assistance."

* * *

My fingers shake when I slowly and finally make it back to the house in West Archeon, the lonely towering building defending themselves.

The sounds of a violin strumming echo through the Viper Mansion feel like a bled out a dream, bizarre softly. I remember the maniacal way my mother is, sometimes, overly powerful energy when it comes to things she likes. I am unsurprised it hasn't changed. Her music is the only focal point in her existence except for her silent lover stalking through the house as if he owns it.

Loren is pale and silent, almost hiding behind the door to the big dining room. He leaps at me, hands clasping around the metal that forms chains and scales over my shoulders.

"What is it?" I ask, wanting that shower now more than anything else. "Are the dogs alright?"

Loren nods. Some part of me sighs slightly relieved.

"Your mother let _him_ stay," he says. I don't need to ask to know who he means. For a second, I am not sure Loren is going to cry like some little child or if it is anger on his mouth. "He is still here. I have been hiding for the last three hours. You need to make sure he doesn't kill me. We have a deal. You keep them off."

I lick my lips. "Is Arven with my mother?"

He furrows his brow. "I think so."

"Good, then you have a silencer and a mimic to fend the threats off. Just tell them how much you love music. Or whatever. I expect your report later." After I take care of another interference and disturbance in my life.

But first things first. I need. A shower.

Priorities. Hah.

I am accompanied by the sound of a violin singing through the house, and I hurry to scrub the sewage of my skin and change, at least for some small break, a few hours, before I need to return.

The night sky is polluted with lights, even at this hour. The people inhabiting the walls and houses may need sleep. The city itself doesn't. In the strips of soft glowing yellow that moves and crawls through the blinds and curtains on the window, I have an unwelcome visitor.

"Enjoying the late-night concert?" I mutter, wanting to spit at his face.

"Your mother is delusional. But not the worst host. She was nice enough to let me inside your room."

I don't want to tell him about the difficulty of my relationship with my mother. So I stay silent and unmoving.

My eyes wander to what little personal belongings I still have in the room, especially the letters. Doubtless combed through in my absence.

"We have something to do," he says, almost bored. "Don't try to fight me."

The violin screeches through the walls in a high crescendo, misses a sound, flails in disharmony. I can almost feel the dissatisfaction from my mother at the failure when the music abruptly stops.

Obstacles ought to be removed. I am in so deep my own game of agreements, I need every bit of power to make me survive.

Samson is power-hungry, and he is cruel. And he is unfortunately still my husband with relations to people holding me in a choke.

What are my options?

Kill or swallow. Swallow the indifference and offer. Offer and manipulate.

_Kill...how tempting._

"It has some time. Do you want to see my favorite room in this house?" I ask, low. Sleeping is out of the question anyway. And I can't leave him wandering around. Cheap tricks and distractions, as I will always remember telling Evangeline. "It is a secret."

The word secret makes everything more delicate and tasty for someone eating through brains. Just like the search party in the tunnels perked their ears and heads like dogs, I see the slight, muttering shift.

We walk through the mansion in silence. I lead, hands crossed in front of my body.

Loren has long fled. My father is nowhere to be seen. My mother is silent on her violin now.

The electronic lock makes a condescending, beeping tone under my fingers, pressing the right buttons and turning the key before the door snaps open.

The white light flickers.

The room is a long row of squares, glass windows in a bright, setback line of cages. Over every small, half see-through window sits a small scribbling. Inside, life flares.  
You can barely make out the shapes, the big, winding bodies, the small, nervous scattering, the jittery legs and sharp barbed pincers, stingers, fangs.

My hands slowly touch a window in the row and the creature inside hisses. Keel shaped patterns of scales rake over the sharp cut, triangular head of the snake.

"Welcome to the Viper Pit," I say, and watch him very closely. He hasn't moved one step closer to me, taking in the sterile white light, the pressed together wall filled with creatures, the letters titling them.

"Your family would name it that." His eyebrows slightly push together. As if it was laughable and preposterous.

I feel insulted by the sheer expression on Samson's face.

I am not sure what I tried to accomplish by bringing him here and show him this. Maybe I just want to feel safe. Keep him away from Loren and my father for multiple reasons.

"Everything in this room can kill you either quick or very painful if you are unlucky," My hands move over to another window. The creature behind doesn't move at all until my touch brings it alive, coiling together.

I try to recollect some information while I still hold my hands over the cold latches of the doors, like some assurance that I am the one in control of the situation, a threat maybe.

"Of course it is about the venom as well as the counterpart. And it's about trust. We all know some Vipers have less restraint than others. Imagine what they would do with twenty diamond-shaped vipers and those nasty scorpions over there."

The story of the Poison Bride swings between us.

_Venom instead of blood in his veins, a groom killed on the wedding night._

The viper slowly slides from its cage up to my arm, ever so gently, ever so slowly. It is a soft caress of death and care. There are sensitive spots in between the pit viper's eye and nostrils, organs that make them sense their prey through heat. The snake stays still under my soft fingertips. It feels appropriate given my latest endeavors in tunnels locating red blood.

Samson was cautious before about even touching food when we had dinner. I could imagine the thought of me being in a position to access a vault of death is giving him enough to think about. I wonder if he takes it as valuable information or a threat. Given the way he thinks about me as mostly unhinged and crazy, he could assume I would go through and kill everyone. But I have much more discipline and restraint for now.

_If you kill everyone; Who is left to listen to you? Or watch you? Or give you power?_

After all, we select and sort all the time in our society. We do it by standards of beauty, usefulness. Not by the standard of love or care. I don't want to waste time thinking about emotions after the flurry of words with Elara.

The snake coils around my throat, a scarf made of beautiful patterns and venom.

No no. Selecting and sorting through is a clever thing to do, even if it's harsh and makes pretty things rot and decompose from inside. Remove some, keep others.

If an animal is faulty, you don't waste resources on it.

The viper nestles still around my throat and shoulders, and I leave it, fingers gliding off to others of the same kind.

When I look up, to my unpleasant surprise, there is that intent stare again, not exactly the usual loathing in his glacial eyes. The second snake rolls around my arm. I gently cradle it like a newborn child. His eyes draw a line over my clavicle and the skin hidden under my hair and the snake.

 _Oh, this is what we play tonight,_ I realize. My stomach gurgles uncomfortable, but my head is set on easy on the goal. _Easier than the alternatives. I may need another shower afterward._

We tax each other a moment, unwilling to stop. No one surrenders ever in between us. This is like the dance at the ball all over again.

I take a step to the side just when he takes a step forward.

The snakes rear upwards on my body. I feel the pressure through the fabric of my robe. The closer Samson gets, looming over me like some ashen haired shadow, the more aggravated the animals around me get. They thrash and snap, hiss and make themselves big.

"How'd you do it?" I ask. My voice is gravel and stone because we both know I am not innocent, and playing coy doesn't suit us. We have learned a thing or two about the other the last month. "How'd you kill my uncle?"

Samson has a shield of arrogance and pride, and he doesn't mind what he is at all. Just another dead body. Another fatality. Another victim on a road paved with ambition and agreements.

"I knew you'd figure it out sooner than later."

I shrug, shaking the bodies around me. "I wasn't sure- but I had some doubts cleared out about the mysterious case of the dead head of House Viper."

"Is that why you hide Loren?" Samson asks. "The poor fool."

I am unwilling to answer that question. If he wants the answer, he will have to _rip_ it out of me again.

The thought makes the animals hiss and throw themselves around again. I try to keep myself blank and unimpressed.

"Did you control him? Or someone else that did the dirty work? I'm sure it was entertaining you."

He takes it unmoving. "Your attempts of interrogating me need some more effort, Daliah."

I grit my teeth into some sort of smile. "I am sure you can make someone sing confession if there's ever an investigation. Which is unlikely in the current state of affairs. My father is a safe leader. No one would want him gone. Nicely done. I am sure _Elara_ liked that little work of yours."

That plucks the right strings.

"As much as I would love to take the credit," he explains, lip twitching. "Your father planned all of this. I believe he took years for the preparations."

That sounds like the quiet waiting man that lets his wife trample over him, standing in the background, telling me to be patient.

"Now that all makes a lot of sense. I still just don't understand why I had to be part of the agreement. You don't care one bit for me as a person."

His long thin fingers lock into place, weaving through my hair.

I close my eyes tightly, pull them shut feeling his too close proximity. It is always surprising to know he has a pulse that rushes and a beating that sings for victory of any kind just as strumming hard as the violin my mother loves so much.

"I didn't marry you because I was smitten with a screaming madwoman," he assures me, hands still pulling with tingling force on my scalp, dark hair flooding down.

 _You're wired so wrong it is easy to slip inside you,_ a voice assures me just the same inside my head. My body jolts. _You don't have strong emotions and bonds. You circle around yourself. Your tolerance for pain is high. You'd have made a good tool. If it wasn't for your stubbornness._

"But you're still trying. Because you love to win a challenge," I say. My hands smooth over his blue collar. "We could work way better if we had some mutual agreement. I keep telling you. A hungry dog is not a loyal dog."

It takes me one moment of his eyes studying my throat instead of my hands or eyes. That suffices to make the snakes move away from me and over to him.

"You wouldn't murder me in your parent's house," he mutters. His eyes are half-closed twin shadows of pale blue, following all the bodies creeping over him.

The snakes wind and grip around his arm and torso, I can feel them tighten. They don't have the muscle to squeeze him to death or even break his ribs, but they cling on. Venom drips from fangs glowing dangerously.

"I hate you," I whisper, voice filled with all the vitriol I can muster between strained breathing. That will never, never change. It is the only emotion I can put in words. Hate and anger. "And if I didn't have my own plans, I would risk it and kill you. _Don't think I wouldn't."_

He gives me that smile made of glass shards again and it reminds me of Elara Merandus.

"Maybe I do like your biting back," he ponders. His hands finally leave my hair alone. "You're rotten. But at least you're not boring me with ideals fighting for some good cause or idealistic value."

"You need to learn to compromise with me," I offer cold. Heron told me I was more Merandus than Viper or Samos, no matter what I wanted. The words are maybe not the insult that I wanted it to be. After all, the flower girl told me I had no heart. That certainly is more profitable than anything else. "Swallow some of that dense pride. It'll help you survive a few more days without me poisoning you. And I'll _bite_ wherever you want me to. I work for the Queen and her son. You work for her. Not my first choice, but oh well."

His brow creases a little. I almost have him, _almost,_ just one more push.

"I hated you inside of me, but admittedly you did a good job securing me where I am today. If we use this together, we can achieve more, and easier as well."

"Sometimes you have to pick your poison," He says in the middle of the Viper Pit, thoughtful again, snakes crawling over him.

I remember the arrangement I used to have with my sweet absent first husband. How he stared at me when I moved over him. Samson doesn't stare at me in awe. He is not constructed to feel awe and compassion. He is constructed to fight and take. He answers every push with one of his own, trying to fight over and win.

A short fit of amused sounds escapes my throat.

For the first time, I laugh not over him, mocking him. But over something he says, with him, not completely patronizing. The snakes flee instead of striking, retreating slowly.

"Sometimes you have to pick your poison," I agree graciously. "I am your wife. Treat me with a minimum of respect, if you know what that is. This could be the start of a more suiting partnership."


	40. Behest

_(I'm terrible at writing conclusions to plots but I try my best! I'm determined to continue/end this haha)_

_behest  
_

_-an authoritative order: command_

_-an urgent prompting_

* * *

**_L_** ies are like silk strings weaving a net.

They're wisps of soft and smooth lines produced in deliberate attempts to catch the unknowing prey.

I have watched enough of my creatures feed to know the circle of life and death. It's natural in the cause of them. They don't think about their methods or kill count. All they do is feast when they need to.

Humans are much crueler than any cold-blooded creature could ever be. When we spin nets we don't aim for strict survival we aim for victory that keeps not only our belly satiated but our pride.

A fistful of anger and restlessness coils in my stomach at that tiny observation. It's all profound. Meaningless.

The lights blink and waver in the distance as I walk over the outskirts of the empty square. I get swallowed on the stones. A small figure of a woman with a heartbeat drumming against her ribcage.

Singing white rays praise the whole architecture of the upper parts of the city, iron and stone, glass, guards and guns and cameras. Feets silent, I wear flat boots and black. I tread lightly as can be.

A second I stop. Inhale the night air. The early morning smells polluted already. I love the smell of Archeon, the variety of smoke and smog and clouds that my animals soar and leap through. But I am not sure today.

If the light-drenched sky and cool air lying over my skin hold consolation, I don't receive it.

Instead, the last weeks play up in my head.

I returned to the Vipers from accusations and was followed by bad rumors.

I tried in vain to receive back status. I begrudgingly agreed to the betrothal to Samson. Not knowing I was just a package part of my fathers deal to get rid of his brother and the rest of the ghastly lot. I give him credit. He played meek and good. Waited so long. Even denied me when I tried to appeal to him. Carefully tended plans of poison.

I clung to Atara and Heron, the second fiddles that they were. The losers of the roles they had to play.

I watched Evangeline and her little red headed shadow girl. I kept eagle eyes out for any threat all while Samson scared me into oblivion with his stinging torture and Maven easily snatched my weaknesses up. Because I was viable enough for him and his mother.

My focus on revenue hatred has helped out.

And then I was invited to partake in that hide and seek game with the rebels and the red girl shooting lightning, and the night of the parting ball speaks for itself.

I'm an accomplice. By choosing, Maven said. I'm not innocent. He was right.

I don't care about the losses and the drama on a personal level. I don't care about the blood that will be spilled tonight. Or after.

They think I don't know what's happening because I only get fed bits and pieces from both Elara and Maven and my husband. I can piece it together well enough. I can piece together a profilic image of a woman that has held leashes tightly over years. On herself. Her child. Her work. Her position at the top.

I know what a whisper can do short term to your mind. Long term extermination and cruelty seems even worse.

I can see a boy with blue eyes and a throat that speaks flattery and lies the finest silk. Called a tool and a vessel. Close to burning his fingers on his own fire and that double-check with the red rebels. Still some patterns are not making sense. But I remember how he clenched the lightning girls elbow and her hand and even if I don't fully feel capable of understanding that exact feeling. That's sufficient.

One last breath in the sky. Then I walk away from the thoughts. I am just a failsafe, a backup, and I know it. Whatever the outcome tonight. Things will change.

I want to be on the side that survives and gains something out of the change.

If that means being an accomplice, fine.

Spiders' silk doesn't have a smell for humans. And lies and poison taste as colorless as that. Until you reach the aftertaste.

_So poetic,_ a voice in the back of my head mocks. It is not a voice of reason but the spit out observations from another person. _Maybe you did inherit some artistic talents from your mother after all. Even if it's not music._

It hurts. It will always hurt. He isn't subtle and never was. But he doesn't burrow deep. Instead, we overlap in my mind. It's useful to stay in touch. It's useful to know I can rely on him not stabbing me in the back or trying to dominate my focus tonight. I spoke my mind and I will earn the respect I deserve. We are partners in crime here at least.

A partnership that may bring fruition, even if we both still want nothing but scratch each other's eyes out and choke the life from each other's throats.

He keeps his distance.  
He doesn't pave or wander. He is deadly still. That is his saving grace. Samson can be brash and in need for attention in his vanity and foul-tempered pride. But I call him a snake for a reason. It shows tonight when both my fangs and his mental ones drip venom in ears. And enact on the simple rule of power cemented in our ways.

A thing learned about life and work in Whitefire Palace and in general about politics.

When proxies go away, executive power changes.

The lights of the hallways never die just the same as outside. Since it is late of the night, not even early morning, the corridors aren't as busy. But just because silence embraces us doesn't mean that we are alone and undisturbed.

I bathe in the little cover I can get, moths and other creatures hiding me from certain angles as they peel over the lenses of some cameras. I walk slow and careful. Just in case. My caution and paranoia can't be cured.

Elara, whisper queen, has given me easy tasks that stack. Her reasoning is easy as the things I was told. If I get caught, everyone can make assumptions. People didn't see me with her or Maven. They know I hate my whisper husband and they know Atara and her bunch of the family treated me indifferent when I was her companion and chaperone.

I'm viable and easy for her to use. Because while I am very close to making it further ranks, I am inconspicuously little in comparison to say her son or my cousins. People are used to me spying and running wild midnight. I'm unsociable under the bows and courtesies. Why would I not be here after what I did and witnessed today? Daliah Viper snooping in your business and gritting teeth in the background is not something new.

At two in the morning, I am a liar again. The lying is easier than breathing. I subtract truth and hide away facts.

I have a bundle of discriminatory evidence in my pockets.

Falsely but pretty convincingly crafted evidence of sorts. I don't get to look at the words long. I try. But more than two words and the voice in the back of my head snaps at me.

All I see is the different sigils and colors mixed in official documents and references to sums of money. I take in the forged bribery and lies that talk about treason. Treason, hm? How funny. I would say whatever I do is more treason than the poor secretary or the charges and proxies from Iral and Lerolan and Macanthos ever had in their mind.

I have to admit though, the fact I plant this envelope in the desk of that poor secretary Macanthos is a nice bonus.

Ellyn may dead. I still get to ruin the reputation of her family further. It seems fair after they ruined me.

The last laugh in this game they call life is always the best one. And I am the one laughing now.

Of course, I'm not really laughing. That would be counter-productive to stealthily hiding between doors and behind corners.

My spiders keep me safe from being spotted. My way of breaking into rooms is easy. I have half of the keys and security bypassing needed from my peeking habits and half the others from the voice in my job head supervising me about the commotion. It's remarkably easy to navigate when you're two observers instead of one. And when half the palace waits to let you slip through doors.

I'm in the middle of proceedings in the matter of stashing and taking things, moving them carefully in the secretarial office, eyes overflying a few words about lost war efforts when the connection between us turns static again and the cord rips. Meaning he must have either dropped it or overstretched reach.

I duck half behind the wood and wait. My breath is shallow.

My control flings over to the nearest insect or spider let loose, clinging to the wall more silent than I ever could.

I can't see anyone. The hallway is empty. The air circulates lazy around my critter. But no reaction. Just the low feeling of a threat and I take it seriously. Because I don't have to be caught.

And then, in the corner of my senses, the connection flickers and reestablishes.

For once in Samson's miserable existence, I encourage his ability to send me warnings and words. I'm almost thankful.

With a stinging pain of an incoming migraine, I get the flash of an image, the momentum of a figure moving. Dark hair with silver threads, sharp eyes, dark skin, silent feet.

Ara isn't sleeping as well, it seems.

As fast as the flash image has come, as fast as the alarm has come, it is gone again.

I am not surprised. Ara kept herself covered since the shooting, but she has many more eyes than I can have with an army of spiders. She is slippery, powerful and careful.

I just helped to prepare to get her whisked and locked away in some silent and fast process later on, as it happens (you disappear, you don't get any choice, but the further your reputation is damaged, the better)...but her presence is unwanted.

I distracted her before. I can do it again if necessary.

What choice do I have?

I certainly can't fight her openly. Not only would she probably mop the floor with tired me. A physical fight would put me in an unwanted spotlight.

_Tonight isn't the night of the panther. Or the merry widow._

I will have to keep an eye on her in the hours to come.

* * *

It is three in the morning. I am tired of sneaking around and walk bellowing for a moment. Sitting below the archway that looks over seats in an arena, night sky still unrecognizable. Light radiates on my backside. I let a moth flutter over my finger before it drifts away, grey and wordless. It reminds me of Larentia, and I remember that if I walk down two or three of the long hallways into another complex, I could knock on Evangeline's door. But what tell her if not lies?

I could disturb her privacy with one of my critters. The idea has a certain amount of comfort, but I have to collect myself and keep my strength for later.

Something cracks beside me, slow steps. And then a slender figure chooses to sit down beside me.

Shadows hang low between us. They paint an eerie resemblance to his ashenhaired mother and my husband a moment. Then it disappears and instead of sinister Maven looks tired and haunted. We have that much in common at least. No rest for the wicked is what they say, well here we are.

He's a boy to me. But what does it matter when we are children learning already to kill and enact that sooner or later. And he's not just some boy, like my red boy. This one right here is silver and he's half Merandus even if he doesn't have his mother's name.

"It's not often we meet in person here," he says.

"I don't feel like being a spider tonight," I shrug. He doesn't know what I have thought about an hour or so ago.

He tilts his head a little. "How does that feel?"

"It's a nice diversion if you're not getting trampled or hurt," I explain and sit as tall as I can beside him. "Since spiders are built for instincts and not for emotions. Not like humans. A spider decides between prey, enemy and familiar. And that is it. Imagine an emotional spider."

"A faulty spider would make a bad spy, I'm sure." His long pale fingers crossed, he looks almost lost a moment before his eyes turn towards me again with the usual expression. Studying and not lost at all.

I still can't fill that gap in the pattern. He does not seem like he's regretting anything. He doesn't threaten or flatter me right now. But he's thinking hard about something. I held Evangeline that monologue about the fluttering heartbeat on the shooting range. I wonder what his answer would be.

But that question would be deflected anyway. A waste of breath to ask.

"Can I ask you something about your first husband, Lady Viper?" Maven Calore surprises me. My heart throbs and falls like a stone into an acid pit.

"You already do," I simply nod him forward through the process and be done.

"I am not foolish enough to assume you would love Samson. Not after what I saw and what we talked about in the past. But I wonder." He pushes his brow together."Did you love Macanthos? "

"No." The answer is quick. "No, I did not."

He doesn't seem fazed or too surprised by that. He simply looks at me again before pushing his eyes away to the window. I study the way he sits now, half attentive, half harmless.

He is not half bad at reading people. I assume you need to be good at that in his position. He did read me very good. He de-escalated the scorpion threat and pulled me over again, after all. He de-escalates this situation again now.

"I am very happy I wasn't," I mutter. Not really a secret. Samson knows of my soft regret for not being kind. This can't hurt me. "I liked him, that was dangerous enough. And he sometimes looked at me like he was smitten. So we made a deal. I slept with him as I saw fit for duty. No kisses. No attempts to try and sway me."

"You liked him," Maven repeats.

"Yes," I admit. Evaporated corpses can't hurt me anymore. I am ascending over the dead bodies of my enemies and lost ones. Over my past. It isn't a burden. It will be my forte and shield. "That happens with human beings, sometimes, I am not sure why. It is better not to try and like people. They aren't as useful in their purpose as animals anyway. Too stubborn."

That makes us both scoff softly.

_We both know it is easier not to get too attached to something._

I huff at that and stand up. "Not that it matters."

"You're right," he agrees, face blank. "It doesn't."

"I'll see you in the morning," I say as a farewell. "I have to check if someone left a window open. Maybe take a rest. Somehow I'm a little twitchy."

"Take care of yourself, maybe a rest, or early breakfast," is the inconspicuously coded answer.

I bid a bow and sneer a little.  
"A nice idea, but you know both our hunger is more of the metaphorical kind."

First, it was dirty work in case something goes amiss. Next, off it is more violence, one way or another. The gun is heavy in the holster as I turn half away from Maven.

I wait two more, long breaths, feel the flashes of light behind my closed eyelids.

Then my feet carry me away hastily.

The rubber band of the connection inside my mind snaps back and forth as I tread over, forward, somewhere into small safety of hiding.

My husband is a shallow form of melted white and blue in the more dizzy lights. He keeps away from brightness just as I do.

At almost four in the morning, I am an easy accomplice to murder. It's funny almost. I don't feel anything watching someone spill their secrets and fears over their cracked, dry mouth before ending themself.

I should be scared. My butcher husband is very efficient, and he doesn't feel anything at this.

I am not scared. Not of the situation. I don't feel horror tonight. Only a slight, fidgeting restlessness, because my work tasks have only just begun. And I realize something viable while I watch him squeeze words out of the man.

It is a loose end. We care for loose ends to disappear tonight.

But he has been caring for loose ends for a lot longer than I have. That is why I haven't seen him around. I get flashes and images in my head while he works in a satisfactory manner. I watch beads of sweat on a forehead and then it is over because a whisper doesn't make their hands dirty, he just lets you end yourself. We leave no evidence of our blank existence.

No one will ever know why a lonely moth crept over the outskirts of a watchful lense. All the while two silent frames walk through the night like a shadow and her bright poltergeist haunting people.

We haunt and walk through the night, enact some words, leave something, take something, threaten someone, watch someone. And then we open that door. That window. And we wait.

I wait in the shadows. Watch an infiltration that is not an infiltration at all. Red rebels that sneak into Whitefire. When in truth they can walk in because we let them.

It seems Heron was right. I am less Viper and definitely not Samos tonight. My heartbeat still strums and heaves against my ribcage and vibrates in my bones. It reminds me I am still alive. Otherwise, I might forget.


	41. Aside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally the story is separated in parts but I felt it was silly on ao3 to add the simple pages with no original content written . Since on wattpad you get way more space to add place holders and images, it was a design based choice I suppose. The Parts are just the poems as well as gifs and a song . Should I still add them? Here is the names of the parts as well as the poems and the songs (I link them so you don't have to search them):  
> Part I- A widow- "A widow- Sylvia Plath"  
> UNSECRET- VENDETTA https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DMJZSTGPXg
> 
> Part II- A wife- "A Poison Tree- William Blake"  
> Astor Piazzolla - Vuelvo al Sur - Tango for Violin and Piano https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMqVoUQVlCU
> 
> Part III- A Family Court- "Family Court- Odgen Nash"  
> Tommee Profitt, Fleurie- Undone https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPaQ3N_89KA
> 
> I got some images to accompany every chapter as well as a really cool cover with a smooth black snake someone made for me. Not too flashy and no aesthetics though. Maybe drop by on wattpad if you like the idea!

_aside_

_-to or towards the side_

_-away from others_

_-out of future use_

_-away from ones consideration_

* * *

**_M_** irrored in the glass window, my face is drained off any color or emotion. Illuminated by static, white light that exposes me. My eyes look dark in their sunken in sockets.

I ignore my reflection, look at the square and the bridge that lies under my gaze in broad distance, half-hidden by another wall.

My hands lie flat at my side. One of my nails has cracked in the nightly sneak and the sensitive flesh beneath stings. A broken nail is nothing to worry about.

My legs grow weak a moment, but I don't have time to sit down.

Flashes of grey light dance in front of my eyes when I blink.

The migraine has gotten worse again.

At least I am temporary out of the reach of any whisper. 

Ten minutes ago I have helped him  murder a man.

I watched someone write a suicide note. A wrong list of accusations and evildoers. And then- nothing but blood and simple parts of a brain. Not a single hole as stone skin Ellyn struggling to push it back. A willing finger on a trigger.

Strange how that goes. It doesn't mean anything to me in my drained, dizzy state. The images and faces mix for a moment. A dead child. A dead foe. A dead man. Silver and red and foggy. And then I focus on my face again. Because I am not going to get dragged down by corpses,  I swear it to myself again. A mantra to protect me and shake off the fatigue.

I look back at the bridge. At the silent square and the figures below.

If I sink my eyes into a bug down there, I am pretty sure I will see Maven.

One more spin on the silk string. Careful not to rip it and ruin the webbing.

Or even more profound than my silk analogy:

A last act before the curtain falls. And the audience holds their breath as their lead recites his last lines.

Conniving plans find their end now. At this moment.  In this sunrise.  The new greying day.

The grand finale.

So much pathos, as Samson mocked once. Pathos for the ones who know how to recognize it.

Let's wait and see who stays alive and well enough to applaud.

When the explosion hits the bridge, I feel the vibrations quivering deep in the stone.

The fire and flashes make my spiders close by flee. A moth tumbles through the air outside, antennas shivering.   
    
I blink down again. Through the smoke, figures move.

An alarm rings out. It wails through the air like the cry of a wounded animal.

I swing around and start to run.

One corner. I make a long leap.

A gun blasts in the distance.

Two hallways and the cackling of a gunshot has disappeared.

Three hallways and I have made it almost to that door I thought about knocking on earlier tonight. I see shattered frames, tired faces void of any expression. Some confused. Some already moving.

A sentinel rustles past me, but it isn't a Viper or any big house I have falsely pushed envelopes of crimes tonight.

Evangeline is half-dressed but very awake, messy line of silver hair and dark eyes burning in the light. Her eyes stoop low over me.

My boots scrape over the floor when my muscles stop full motion. I straighten as best as possible.

I don't need to tell her what's happening. I still spit out the words just to say anything.

"Red rebels on the square," I heave, chest burning with a fast-paced heartbeat again.

She looks over to the scrambling guards and people running through the echoing long hallway. She picks up on the yelling fast. "More bombs?"

"Yes."

I take a long breath. Spine straight. Feet on the ground.

"We better stick together. Your mother wouldn't like me anymore if I don't stay with you."

Behind me something rustles again, and when I turn around I halfway have my hand at my gun. My worry is only half a lie by now. I don't trust anything. But I would never hurt her.  
Not again. Not after what I did last year. I deserved the whiplash from her then. I don't want it now.

"Lady Viper comes with me," Evangeline barks over, taking the same stance, as if we both are just adopting mimicry or strange dance steps. Her hand motions over.

She doesn't need my protection.

But it's making things easier if she stays distracted and away from whatever is happening now.

The alarm wails one more time over our heads. It feels hungry now instead of hurt.

"We can't leave Whitefire." I say that matter of fact. I can't leave.  I can't leave the deals and I can't leave before I don't have any word from my new partner and old nasty rash burning on my skin. "The bridge is down.  The square is clogged with fighting. I suspect we'd find authorities scattered and the royal family  
already evacuated.I want you to be safe. But I can't stop you to go where you want."

Maybe Maven isn't the one reciting the finale.   
I come close and good as supporting actor.

Our feet are a staccato. No one would dare and stand in my cousin's way right now.

Her lashes flutter once before her eyes turn to slits.

"I hope you don't only aim true at paper."

"If I miss a rebel or whoever I need to shoot tonight," I huff. "Be so kind and put the bullet on the right track."

She pulls her lips back, exposed gritted teeth.

I reciprocate.

_Everything in life is expendable. Except family._

It's almost like old times.

 

* * *

The aftermath of the explosion and the death at the Sun shooting, as it had been titled the very same night,  was quiet.

It was angry, a little dizzy mourning,  with the piled up bodies before the throne and a king and court that spoke about unity.

Now this morning it is different.

Today, it is like some thunder has clashed at ears in full speed and power. Ears half death, everyone seems paranoid and more cautious. The air tastes more stale. Even more dangerous.

Now that the curtain has fallen and everything has changed,  now that the web has fulfilled its purpose good enough. Now comes an even more intriguing and dangerous part.

This day will be written in a lot of books. It feels over already though to me because I can't keep my eyes open and my feet straight anymore.

From time to time images and fragments of words slip through my brain. Samson keeps distance again. My husband came to check on me as soon as some smoke cleared. But he didn't stay. My cousins were good at driving him away. I wanted to laugh. Seeing Evangeline cut his head off for daring to come too close seems an amusing image still.

My father and two big dogs find me edged in a corner of a room, half sunken together,  listening to voices on the other side of the dark wooden doors. He looks like he had half a night of rest at least. His clothes are fresh and clean. The pin gleams on his chest in the winding motion of a snake.

Runt pushes against my leg. I pat her softly. Her wounds from the kick into her snout and claw at eyes are still healing. One Ear whines and I scratch him as well for a moment. They wag their tails low. The dogs are cautious when they sniff and they are right to do so.

"We will have a new king," I greet. Speaking out most obvious truths because I can't trust my voice and my hurting head.

"And not the one everyone expected," My father answers, worried wrinkled eyes checking every bit of skin and blood on my clothes he can find. "Are you hurt?"

Now he cares about my small bleeding cuts. I guess it had to take a shift in power. And the bruises aren't inflicted by Samson.

I shake my head. "A few bruises and scratches. Nothing bad. I was with Evangeline after the explosion happened. And later Ptolemus found us too."

I look back to the doors one more time. My father probably has more pressing matters than escorting me. I take it as it is. He is a grown man. He makes his decisions as I make mine. And fir the most part we keep them separated from each other.

"They arrested Lucas Samos after they set down both Prince Tiberias and the girl for treason and regicide."

Regicide.  Patricide. What is the right word if you are arrested for murdering your father who happens to be king?

My brain lacks concise language by now. I furrow my brow.

"So I heard." My father offers an arm. I don't take it. Push my tired bones up. "I bet Volo wasn't too pleased."

"The rest of house Samos distances themselves from all his actions," I quote rather stone faced from the discussion overheard. Because  Lucas Samos crime is called treason. What is the definition of treason? Covering up for something?  Conspiring? Execute me manacles cutting in my skin just with him. Ah, the world and their scapegoats and failsafes. If Ara had found and mopped the floor with me yesterday I would probably be dead or in a cell too. Maven once warned me I would disappear if I didn't make the right choice. I suppose his choices have, if not anything else,  led to his succession on the throne of Norta, so I should be happy things went as they did for me.  
"A big official execution, that's what's waiting?"

"Oh yes." My father gently grips my elbow and stops me from scrambling down and falling.

I barely know anything about the girl. I remember the way the dogs surrounded Tiberias Calore and wagged their tails. And then I remember the blood on his shoulder at the sun shooting coupled with that look of pity he gave me for who I am.

But this is not about personal feelings, even if I had them. The practical side in me wonders about something else.

"Are you concerned, father?"

My father takes his time to answer that. He weighs the words on his tongue like a dozen suicide pills.

I stumble out of Whitefire more than I walk. In the distance a huge ruin made of metal marks the still smoldering remains of flames and explosions.

The sun shines down and pins like needles in my half closed eyelids all the while my blood pounds in my ears.

"It is what it is," he decides.

"You will just wait it out again?" I whisper.

_Hiding behind Samos, or Merandus, isn't that so? Too bad you could only trade and marry one child to seal a deal, but you did so double, I guess it counts as well._

"And what do you suggest we do?" He tilts his greying head.

"I suggest sleep and a shower because frankly put,"I scoff softly. "I can't think straight anymore."

The dogs make low sounds before shielding me on the way back. My father is silent. So is the world. Except for another kind of alarm. One that suggests mourning. When in truth we know the sounds are meaningless just as corpses getting stuck in boxes and thrown in dirt.

One good or  bad thing about funerals and more official business.  About crowning a king.  
The family will get together again so close.

The question is, which one of them is to stay?

 


	42. Landslide

_landslide_

_-the mass that moves down_

_-a great majority of votes for one side_

_-an overwhelming victory_

* * *

**_I_** barely have fallen into some dreamless slumber before something crashes against the wooden floor somewhere in the mansion. My blanket of dogs explodes into a ball of cautious noise and jumping legs. Paws clicking on the wood, noses taking in the smell on the other side of the door, they bark an alarm again as soon as the crashing sound repeats.

I take a moment to sit up and watch them.

"By my colors, I swear," my voice barely says to Battle Scar weakly twitching at my feet. His wounds make him sleepy. I somehow wish an animos couldn't only just slip but heal skin. It would make him and my life easier. As it is, all that is to do have someone from our family with a lot more knowledge about animal physique care. Better not to strain the dog.

"If this isn't important, I'll feed whoever is outside there to you." Just some angry mutter as I slip into my robe. The dark fabric feels heavy, but as someone used to more layers than necessary in the summer, the heavy, cool feeling is  familiar.  The stupid robe is the first thing I possessed since the day I returned to the Viper mansion at Summerton what feels like another lifetime ago.

But  I can pull out the dresses designed for mourning and weeping as well now again. Since we have so many dead to mourn or to forget, depending on who you ask.

Not a veil this time. I'll keep that in the wardrobe for another fortunate day.

_I made a promise of spite and the hope for bad luck in my wedding night, after all._

One Ear huffs, half a bark.

Battle Scar is still staying at my legs as his brother and sister make a rapid pace and return silently to my side after a whistle.

"You stay, sit," I demand, and the hurt dog sinks down with a whine, tongue half out. He curls below my bed and blinks in the small light that falls through my closed blinds.

Shouting starts to erupt. Every animal in the house starts yelling with the voices, screeching and barking along with whatever anger is pushing along the house.

I assumed maybe it came from downstairs. But as soon as I open my room, the noise shifts with one more yell.

The dogs' freeze and wait with me.

One Ear sniffs again, scarred tissue twitching and the whole ear left intact turning in attention.

Runt's paw stays in midair, before pushing into another direction instead of the stairs.

It comes from the wing that holds the studies and offices, the more official rooms of the family members in charge.

"I will not tolerate you staying in charge longer than I have to," someone hisses. I know that voice. The dogs growl low.

Seems Calpurnia has finally found her way back into the capital.

"Your brother had a son,  and we have never changed inheritance matters if the lineage is as clear."

"I don't want it," Loren dips his tongue in fear when he says that, and I don't have to see his face to know he has to be as pale as sour milk. Knowing that the man behind the desk the other voices are attacking has patiently taken out and replaced his father.  "I renounce my claims, I won't ask for anything...except for some compensation to move on."

"Unheard of-" Someone else chimes in.

"No," Calpurnia clings to Loren desperately after grooming him so long. "No, that bring shame for House Viper and the memory of your father."

"It isn't like the decision to stick to a female branch is completely unheard of," My father argues. His voice sounds strained beneath the exasperation and exhaustion. Slippery. I never heard him yell in all those years. He's close to giving up and doing it now. "House Iral had a matriarchal line. Before today no one would have questioned Ara for being a woman in charge."

Before today...the implication of that.

I tilt my head. The dogs quiver beside me and One Ear pants once, showing a dagger tooth.

"Her children will be Merandus!"

I want to laugh and hold back breathing too hard on my side of the door. Calpurnia egged me about getting a bunch of whisper children the night of the first chase in the woods. She uses the same argument for her own sake now instead of mocking me.

"Then they won't inherit," My father says. "It isn't like she already has grown-up children to threaten you. She isn't even pregnant, as far as I know."

Oh no, my children aren't going to inherit. They'll never exist as far as I am concerned. 

A part of me ponders about that a moment, blood in my veins piling into something harsh and hot. Because it isn't like I am not aware of the most dreaded component of this marriage that maybe, someday, could come into reach of possibility.

But the last time we had a discussion grazing the topic of sex, both of us seemed relatively sure to never try that experience with the other. Hard to reproduce with someone when their existence makes you want to choke them until their face turns blue and grey.  And I am very, very fine with not crossing that line if it isn't required for me to keep control.

"As far as you know?!"

"Do you expect me to question my grown-up daughter about her cycle and her level and frequency of intercourse? Feel free to ask her, Calpurnia. I'm going to keep everyone in check while you do that. If you haven't noticed, we have a boy as our new king, and he is likely to exterminate whoever he and his mother think aren't loyal to the right claims. You need to be blind to not see the shifts and rifts."

I can sing songs about false loyalty.

"I'm not blind," Calpurnia thrashes up and down behind the door that separates us. "I am just not comfortable with Daliah and you-"

"Do you realize what Ara gone means for Iral?" My father inquires.

The dogs sit motionlessly. Runt is a silver shadow at my shifting legs. I listen very carefully.

So she is gone. That was easier than expected.

"Do you realize what a scandal this would be if we didn't have both a dead king and a lost crown prince, Calpurnia? No one is going to say it, but you can be damn sure that the rumors have spread by now. A dead secretary and a suicide note, more documents in his office discriminating her?"

My work. Well, mine and that of the whisper.

The thought is astounding. I have just helped to make the panther fall.

She is gone. When Ellyn died I didn't feel the victory I hoped for. Now, though, regarding Ara, I always had some reverence and admiration for her. I don't have a personal grudge. I could have worked for her if Maven hadn't caught me first that one faithful day in the Hall of the Sun.

I feel almost powerful, silver blood pulsing through my veins. Even if no one except for Elara, Maven, Samson and me knows the truth about my work.

The dogs lick their snouts. Something in my stomach feels not angry anymore but could be satisfied soon.

Another round of shouting erupts. I have had enough standing in the hall. throw the door open.

Calpurnia looks like she has been dragged through a swamp. Her hair is growing grey, her face gaunter. Loren looks like he is just considering to jump out of the window to escape. The others are more or less the same, buckling naysayers and opportunists.

"You shouldn't have a discussion about my future position without me," I simply declare, arms crossed and bare feet tapping over the ground. Then I lean at the corner of the desk, just at the center, opposing everyone else.

"It isn't a discussion," my father answers, sinking behind the desk into the armchair adorned with the spindling carving of yet another snake in the dark wood and metal inlay. Beside the desk, a cage with the tiniest bird I have ever seen wobbles when the dogs push past. The bird hops low and sings a high pitched song.

He says I spoil them for letting them sleep at my feet.

They have pillows behind the desk and chair.  They sink with as much pride into them as big dogs can display.

I cross my arms even more tightly. "It isn't a discussion?"

"It is a vote. Basically." My father answers and clears his throat. Every pair of green, black and grey dagger eyes puncture both me and my messy head and robe and my father on the chair.

But they are silent now. They wait. Coil together. Ready to strike if necessary.

My father still doesn't yell. I can tell by the way he speaks he's taken some inspiration by other powerful people.

"I have led this family for a decade. Even if not by name. I never complained about the tasks you gave me. I sat through hours of council meetings. I served at the war front, I helped to establish trades, I married a woman that had connections to the city and palace guard. I am not going to let any of you diminish that anymore. Not after I have been continuously been proving my worth. Not after that egocentric, choleric man is gone by his own fault. You can stay with me. Or denounce yourself like Calpurnia, opposing me at every cost."

"Choose carefully," I add quietly, and my father's ringed hand touches me a moment on his side, a small, reassuring gesture. The dogs on their pillows have their ears tilted in attention.

"We're still with Samos." Ah, one of the loyalists.

"We are, Hector. Don't worry."My father addresses him, almost gentle. "I was approved after the sun shooting to handle things. And I am very sure the plan for Evangeline is still becoming queen. Even now they wouldn't afford to pull some stunt on Volo. Another reason my daughter is a valid choice for your future. The siblings and she used to be inseparable."

Another pondering silence. the air is so thick you can cut it with a knife. But my father has spoken the truth. His truth. He, of course, omitted that part where he murdered his brother.

I only sneer slightly. "If this is a vote for me and for my father, you will have to speak up."

Loren swallows a lump in his throat, moving, grey shirt crumbled and dark hair just as messy as mine. He still looks like he wants to flee.

Old snakes are never tame, even if they grow accustomed to your touch. Calpurnia's eyes are slits.

The others shift a moment.

"Yes," A voice behind me starts, a slow drawn out hiss.

"Yes," another adds.

"No!" Calpurnia spits.

Every eye is settling on Loren. He avoids them all, nervous and not the proud boy he used to be at all.

I raise my eyebrows in expectation.

"Yes," he mutters.

And that is the last straw to overthrow any other words.

Calpurnia makes one step forward. And I get to do something I wanted to do since the day she and her owl disturbed me in the forest.

With a leap, I make two steps in her direction before her hand can move.

She sees my fingers, tries to evade.

I hit her in the throat.

Seething eyes and choking, desperately trying to breathe, she falls.

I haven't hit her hard. Just poked a bit.

Loren barely catches her. She smashes into him, almost dragging him down.

The dogs jump from their pillows, ready to take another fight if I want to.

No one else bats an eye.

We all just watch Calpurnia ringing and fighting for breath and the last rest of her dignity.

"I could have crushed your throat," I state and barely restrain myself from kicking her. My hands flex, open and close. I am tired, sore, and very happy to hurt her. "I should have. But you're outnumbered either way. So you bend or run now, Calpurnia Viper."

She doesn't answer. Instead, she finally stumbles up, still breathless. Loren lets go as if she has burned his pale fingertips. Her eyes tilt and blink like a wounded hare in the unrepenting throat of their hunter.

Then she turns and flees.

The door smashes close.

I scoff softly. The dogs puff and sink back on their pillows.

Everyone else stays where they are.

The silence is deafening. The bird chimes again from his seat, low and soft this time. Shaking the brilliant green feathers.

"To House Viper," my father says quietly, leaning back.

"To you," Hector says from his corner, a black shadow with teeth gleaming white in contrast.

And then Loren surprises me. "And to Daliah."

I bow slightly, still sneering. "Power and Strength."

"Power and Strength," the whole room echoes. And they bow for me in return.

I feel dizzy again. But not because I have had so little sleep.

 

 


	43. Resemblance

_resemblance_

_-the quality or state of resembling_

_-a point of likeness_

_-archaic **:** characteristic appearance_

* * *

**_W_** hen treason, murder, and lies have brought you where you are, it holds a certain irony when the very same stop you from celebrating that accomplishment properly.

At midday, I have at least slept three more hours and had another long shower. And I have had the pleasure of making this whole business official. My father isn't fully reassured with the paperwork and the confirmations, because plainly put, everyone is crazy out there.

And for their own.

Their own family, their blood, their belongings. They clutch them with claws, desperate like a fat woman clutches her pearls in indignation.

I sink my feelings and senses into Runt, walking beside me over the square getting cleaned up in front of Whitefire. Her wet nose inhales rapidly. It catches the scents of sweat, the fear, and anger that people drown in. She lets the scents ring through me and I soak myself into them, taking the opportunity to feel better than them all.

I have just won a fight that has been going on even longer than the last few months since I returned to the family.

Runt and One Ear help to categorize more running, ushering figures, I don't even need to see their colors or their faces. They are silent and attentive, a silver flash on clicking paws and her brother in tow, ear flat on his head.

"You are lucky they are so well behaved no one would suspect they could cause trouble," Provos says at lunch over his dish while I silently and very carefully hold the fork in my hand. Just in case my father decides he wants me to do the dirty, the same as my husband and he did the rest of the family dirty. No knife, and no poison. But wouldn't it hurt that freckled, withered hand with the golden ring to have fork tinses stretched through it. I lose myself in the intricacy of that violent thought a moment, it has some nice ring to it. Always had. Stabbing someone with cutlery when they least expect it indulging over their meal. And you expect a Viper to poison you. Not simply stab you, after all. Surprise, surprise.

"What else would they be? You're just trying to vex me now." His hand gives Runt at his feet a soft flick over her grey ears. "It isn't as if Viper's aren't known for their animals."

"Not just that anymore," is the slow answer, and the eyes wander over to me, and I don't need to be a mind reader to know that he means my public freakout and the dead people involved. "Congratulations. What a quick recovery from all the bad-mouthed words. We knew, of course, you are your father's daughter. "

My father's daughter. What does that even mean? Well, except for the fact even old Provos has it in himself to insult my mother. And here my father said it was overlooked.

My layers of  black skirt and tightly laced blouse rustle low when I fold my hands together. The scorpion dangles a little on my shoulder.

When I study him inside the lavish room with too much gold, filled with scents that make the dogs a little slobbery at my feet, I let my eyes sink a little.  
But not _too_ much. I'm neither young enough nor coy nor would anyone ever believe that I mean it. I gave up on that as soon as I gave up on any flashy hairdressing. The knot on the back of my head can attest to that.

"I know it isn't the time to celebrate my succession when we have such a big loss to mourn. But it is so nice my father has friends like you, Lord Provos, that at least make sure to congratulation him."

Playing humble rubs me the wrong way. All I want is...well. Now that I am undisputed and acknowledged in our house policy, all I want is control, I suppose? You need to train animals even if you control them. They need rules and leashes. They need discipline. It would be the same as the Vipers. They all act like entitled children and badly conditioned animals. Too stubborn, too afraid, too proud, too entwined.

And then, if they have all settled, who knows? We do have a new king. And we do have some ugly dealings. The fact that I am not as dead or vanished as others seems like I either can hide behind my positions and cousins now or that the worst is yet to come.

I haven't seen Samson since he killed that man hours ago. He hasn't sent any message or even some migraine-inducing thought. That sends a warning shiver down my spine. But I keep my sullen face straight.

My father is quiet as always, but he isn' comfortable the slightest. The meal goes over rather quickly and the old men retreat for some harder sort of talk, and Runt smells the fear.

I catch the fewest words, they are very low and very fast. The dogs tilt the heads and ears for me.

"-without a head."

"That was to be expected," My father answers, and his voice sounds tired more than anything. "But it isn't like you would be in danger.  Hold a step back. That is what I told my daughter. And I told it to you."

I wonder if I will visit Provos in the next night. If he will be gone like Ara. Or simply dead and denunciated like secretary Macanthos, that nervous, fearful creature.

"What was that about?" I ask him. "Another execution?"

My father coughs low and swipes his palms over the hem of his jacket. "Something about self-preservation. Don't worry. No one will bother you anymore. You are set in the position. And you will succeed me, no matter what happens next."

"I don't like the way that sounds," I murmur at his arm, squeezing it a moment. The scorpion shakes the stinger between us.

He turns his eyes to the empty streets before us.

_As if the walls will keep you safe if someone wants you gone._

"As I said, don't worry. It is all a formality. And now that the Viper's have accepted the vote and Loren doesn't want anything to do with it..."

I scoff softly but refrain from another comment.

When I reach home I feel a little sick and bloated. Because even the smallest amount of too heavy food in my stomach is too much. I should eat more regularly. The last months didn't exactly make me fat. The next small note for my better health.

Loren's eyes take us both in as we enter our safe mansion, the fenced island of guards and animals.

My father sighs. Looks around the entrance. Nothing seems out of the ordinary or out of place, still, the same dark dusted rooms and silent doors. But we all know that doesn't have to say anything.

"What is it this time?" I ask and arch my back. "Did Calpurnia decide to embark on her own coup? Did she poison everyone in our absence?"

"No." He swallows, creeping over to my side. I want to laugh because he hides behind me from my father now. "They're in the salon."

"They?" My father asks with arched eyebrows.

"Speak up, Loren, or get lost," I add, and while I keep the deal and shield him, I do not feel inclined to friendly coaxing the words out of his mouth.

"Your mother." The words are coming unwillingly slow as he wrestles with his own throat. I don't blame him. "And the whisper."

The salon is my least frequent visited chamber in this mansion next to my mother's music room. It's a bright, wrong room. And it has an implication of social events and interactions. I prefer the truth of rattlesnakes and scorpions behind glass plates.

My mother laughs at the end of the hallway now that we make our way there.

I freeze a moment, limbs in the air, and the dogs ponder if they should stay or press on with my father.

My mother laughing means nothing good. It never does.

"He was a terrible stiff man," she explains, and the judgment in her voice weighs heavy against the lightness of her tone. She is like her violin, a bow swaying back and forth very charming, but it is easy to scratch over the strings and hear a mispronounced sound. "He always saluted and stood to attention, and he didn't have an ounce of interest for anything but training and war. She adopted bits of it to impress Colonel Macanthos. They made her less graceful. A lady shouldn't stay soldier too long, I told her when I visited her once. And her husband...ah, the casket was empty. The grenade didn't flatter him."

She talks about me, I realize. She talks about me and my dead husband.

Of course she'd chat about intimate things and he'd soak it up. He doesn't need to read her mind or force her to it.

"Terrible how Colonel Macanthos died, by the way. Shot in the face," She sounds genuinely disturbed below the chattering. "Terrible and atrocious. I hope you took care of Daliah, she can be fragile when it comes to this family she used to be part of."

"I promise I'll always take care of your daughter, she is my spouse, and so precious after all," I hear the cool voice say before I see the bright-eyed face of Samson. Walking in and out of the house as if he owns it. It seems a theme for men in my and my father's life.

"Yes, a precious little bug, we used to call her," My mother agrees. While she wears black now, she doesn't look very doleful or inconsolable about the loss of our king.  Someone even brought her a drink to accompany that small pillows she has draped herself over. "You're back. Look who decided to keep me company."

My father does this thing again, as soon as her eyes brush over him. Like she just handed him the key to a treasury, and he can't believe the sight in front of him. It dissipates faster this time between my souring face and the blue eyes that watch carefully. It also helps the dogs stand stiff and narrow. My father needs to whistle and make them turn. Fur stands off their bodies.

"Lovely," I note with a gravel undertone. I gift the black-dressed snake a weak gnashing of my teeth. His answer is an arm loosely lying over the back of the chair, fingertips touching my shoulder and arm. "I can't believe my luck."

She ignores the slight and smiles insubstantially. The flittering way she moves reminds me of the green bird in my fathers' study.

"We just had an interesting conversation about your previous husband."

"I heard that," my voice comments and my head tries to reason with my body lashing out and ruining the salon and everyone in it. The dogs growl low.

 _Not like you wouldn't know all about it_ , I think sharply. His finger twitches on my shoulder.

"I think we need to have a conversation," My father says. He gives my mother about a second before standing up. They abandon me. At least the dogs lurk in the back.

"A precious bug," he repeats, tastes that on his tongue in some badly veiled mockery. His arm lowers but doesn't disappear, strumming on my waist instead. "You're now the heir of House Viper. Your parents are so mighty proud. And your father also tells your mother she should never be alone in a room with me right now. While leaving you."

"It isn't like I am not used to that." I ignore the fact I could simply slap him and sit up more straight and tense again, grabbing my skirt and tug my nails into the fabric.

"Where were you?"

He looks away, and his eyes stare into the bright light from the window midday unblinking. "Decapitating someone can be messy," he sounds as casual as if I had asked him about his favorite color. "And I needed a change of clothes anyway."

I look at his face a moment. No regret. No emotion. Just some other loose end. Some other dead. Cutthroat Samson walks just over life if he pleases.

He slowly looks back, waiting for me to say anything about that revelation. His eyes eat my face and his long index finger taps at my waist once.

I huff out a soft breath too close to his sharp cheek and curve of his nose.

Then I laugh again, the second time today he makes me laugh genuinely. A hacked, sharp sound that could sewer a head probably as good as whatever weaponry was used.

"I'm not surprised _the least_ , butcher."

His hand tightens a second, then it disappears almost softly. I'm unsure if that means he is flattered or angered.

There'll be another Bowl of Bones in the morning. A swarming moment that hangs over everyone after the announcement. But it also means the rest of us is safe and sound, and we get the places of honor and seats of choice to watch the blood flow and the execution served.

The following dinner this evening is perhaps the strangest and most unpleasant meal I ever had. And that says something. I had a lot of meals in a cell made of cold stone, chained and tightly bound together.

Half the Vipers refuse to sit on the same table as my mother or Samson, so they stay away. Calpurnia isn't to be seen either. I am flanked by two black-clad man, one is trembling under the table like he will be executed in the morning, the other sips at his glass between his thin fingers contently.

My father sits at the end of the table. My mother sits alone with Arven and who barely I remember is Hector's son on my opposite. And every time I chew and swallow I want to puke.

Occasionally there is some silent exchange between my father and my husband, eyes avoiding contact for too long.

I clean the rest of my table and slug down the harsh liquor in my glass before I excuse myself.

It burns in my throat.

A folded and sealed letter waits for me below my door. It crumbles a little together when I open it.

A very elegant and very familiar handwriting greets me. For a second, I simply hold the paper, as if the smell of ink and the faint trickle of words can hold me in return.

 


	44. Engulf

 

_engulf_

_-to flow over and enclose: overwhelm_

* * *

**_I_** don't remember too much from the actual events occurring in the bowl of bones before this one. But I know the stories. I know the stories _very well._

The one story that always stood out is the one tied to my family. It is the one about the poison bride. The Viper woman killed her groom in their wedding bed. Snakes trailing over him and biting him. Until only venom was left.

The last months have been shaped by the story in the back of my head. I remember the white snake standing witness as I promised no one would tear me down and deny me what I deserved.

I remember the story drawling lines between me and Samson in our wedding night, and in all the nights after.

Now all I know is that I will never be like the poison bride. And I won't ever end in this Bowl of Bones.

This execution, this open event will still spill blood both red and silver, and I am very sure at least some people will enjoy it.

In the earliest hour of the morning, I stand in front of the mirror one more time and smooth over my jacket. No high heels, not when I need to climb so many stairs again and sit around for what I presume is long talks and walks. My feet were used to mostly my combat boots these last days, and even though I will need heels soon enough again to seem bigger again, today I hide the flat soles under my rustling skirt.

No one will look at me too long, I will wager. I am not the most interesting thing to entice a crowd in this arena.

It's strange. Last time I was in an arena I wished malice upon a man I feared to marry.

Now this man sits beside my mirror and watches me with bare-boned interest. Somewhere in his own thoughts for once, or still digesting yesterday and the following night. Still digesting the letter he knows now about. But I don't need to worry about it. Because Larentia isn't stupid enough to write something important.

The words still hold something that gives me a bite of more confidence. Even if something is very off.

I don't like the thought of being scrunched inside the boxes and seats with my family again. This time, there is no Atara to hide behind in Queenstrial. There is no Samson below that I can hope to suffer. This time there is only the faint memory of people executed below. This time, there is a faint story of the poison bride echoing one last day. This time, the action and entrance is more elaborate. I hate to be nervous. This is the first day in my succession, just as it is the first new day for our dear boy king.

I smooth over  jacket and skirt once more, feel my gun, feel more metal, and the weight attached to it.  Swallow.

This day should be easy. What do I have to do but watch people die? It isn't like that is new. Or hard to digest. This is how it was supposed to end.

Samson stirs beside me, returning to this moment, done with whatever he has just conducted through the convolutions of his brain.

We both wear black. We all wear black.

Another mourning procedure that is meaningless in truth.

He looks at me waiting. I only have a long drawn breath and a hard face for him.

"I'll meet you there," I proclaim, done inspecting my form in the mirror. "Make sure my mother comes alone and takes a seat in the back. Because my father sure won't."

"Your father is weak-minded when it comes to that," he agrees, looming over me. Too pale in black, with a face sharp enough to make the bones stand out in the shadows, a skull and a threat.

"Maybe," I start, not knowing why I say it. "Maybe it is the best thing that could have happened that we can't stand each other."

"Now who turns meek?" He asks, and I realize he hasn't forgotten my scolding words at the Sun shooting.

"I always said passion and love are waste and mistake."

"I don't disagree on that one poignant thing you like to say over and over again in your head to stand your own existence." He barely blinks down at me. "But it is tiring me."

I scoff softly and leave without another word.

My family moves through the house like ants in their tunnels and hill. My father is still in the room with the caged bird. My mother luckily isn't yet at the ready.

I leave alone, earlier than anyone else, simply to seek out another family I wanted to be a part of.

* * *

You'd half expect them to have to sit through the process of the arena the same as me. But today, they don't have to sit still.

They're executioners. They'll be part of the blood getting spilled. In some sort of semblance to a fight, but sure a one that they are supposed to win more easily.

The arena stands thick and strong, stone gaping in a hole I take, entering and moving.

I walk below the ground, below people gathering already, and below the enormous mass of soldiers, security, sentinels. This is not as an intimate meeting of the highest of the high, like the parting ball that turned into a night of blood and murder.

This arena is bustling with life already. I have a few moments, moving below,  scattering some of my bugs, just because they creep from under my collar like some trace of invisible life and footsteps.

Maybe it is just because of something flutters in my stomach again, nervous. I walk by mostly untouched, simply with a sneer, getting recognized or waved through.

My favorite cousins are straight and up, pairs of hard faces that match my own pale one. But instead of skirts and hidden weapons they wear armor that glitters low in the light. I look to both of them. Black eyes look back less harsh than I expected.

It is too short of a moment to actually say much.

I wish them luck or something equally silly. They spit out something about me being acknowledged and in charge. To my surprise, I don't want to leave. My body visibly bristles at the prospect of simply taking a seat.

They jealously guarded me yesterday. I can only hope it means anything. And not only because it would be useful to me.

We're different images in the same smoke.

At the end, I just slowly reach into my jacket and pull out the knife I took from Loren.

"I know you are probably equipped good enough, and I only have one," I say.

I hold the knife out. A blank piece of metal used to cut through fabric and skin and hurt.

Evangeline takes it. Our fingers touch a moment.

I arch my back and try to keep looking at her face.

* * *

I find the rest of the stadium bustling with bodies and life. Through the hallways constructed harsh and cold, I move up a set of stairs until I reach the level where our seats are.

It isn't too different from the one where I watched Samson, except that this place is constructed to be grand, and to stay grand, to prove superiority. It isn't the province, this is our capital. And the Bowl of Bones isn't a match. It is a death sentence in front of a live audience.

I find my father already sitting, dogs with their tongues around him. They are as nervous as me. They try to lie down at his feet, but their ears twitch and their tongues hang out as they pant violently.

As far away from the dogs as space will allow without giving up too much or disappearing in the back, Samson is like some blockade.

He blocks scared Loren away. And he blocks my sour-faced mother. I don't think I have seen her this unwilling to act ditzy or smiling inconsequential before. She looks like a pouting toddler. I give her one glare before I disregard her existence.

I choose to sit down right between him and my father again. The light illuminates the dust below and the blurry line of faces and black dressed bodies.

The dogs pull their ears back to their heads when the noise rises and a voice announces our new king.

And the fact that I see the whisper queen wears a veil amuses me.

The world is blurry, and it stays that way as I blink through brains splattering on the ground.

We watch Lucas Samos go and then the next round starts and we enter the main attraction.

The dogs go haywire by now, and the only reason they are still here is that my father makes them, soothing over one of their heads. They are trained to endure loud noises, to endure silver powers. But this tilts them hard. They rapidly sniff. I try to help and keep them calm.

Sweat forms on my palms.

This isn't right.

Something about the way this goes isn't right at all.

I am not talking about morals or reasons. The feeling is visceral just as my nervous fluttering heart.

I watch my cousins down in the arena. Silver and glory. And she has my knife in her hand.

My hands start to shake. The dogs' whimper. I look over at my father. His eyes are too affixed to what is happening down there. Not even the self preserved whispers are doing anything.

The fight, however starts to go into a direction that doesn't exactly fit the type of defeat that would move cameras and make a good and gracious win. Aren't your enemies supposed to get crushed completely?

Something is wrong. And not just the water that cracks over the dome. It flashes in some horrific imagery over the sharply tuned faces that barely miss fangs to resemble the leering, greedy creatures that they are. My brain seems to loosen wires that produce a cracking panic and shiver in electricity. Like a short circuit.

I tilt my head on my space on the rank, and while I watch an exiled prince and a girl that could procure lightning out of nowhere fight for whatever their life is worth, something creeps up my mind again.

Something isn't right.

The dogs leer and jump again, fur standing up. My spiders scuttle still in fear of the sudden flashes of lightning.  
I am desperately trying to figure out what is wrong with me. I am having some sort of panic attack. That must be it. I send the spiders away.

I lead them out of the seats and box, away from the tumult. Down into the abyss of hallways under the arena and along the edges. Every body that crawls moves for me and I don't know how I still keep control.

The impressions are almost too much. I almost falter under the pressure, jumping in between. It tugs at my senses. Then I feel the vibrations of feet. Not the silver booted feet of sentinels. Not the same vibration as before. More feet. More hasty scurrying.

_I shouldn't be alarmed. I should be happy._

My feet find the hard ground, and I leap upwards, away from watching the screens and the spectacle below.

A hand grabs my wrist harshly. Samson feels my quivering muscles, and he feels the terror and the strange feeling that is foreboding in my stomach. I rip at my hand. For a second he claws into my bones tightly. It will leave bruises again. I don't care. The next moment, I can feel similar claws in my brain, and they dissect the feeling that by now rises up to my throat. Then he suddenly let's go. He doesn't touch the panic and the paranoia that builds inside me and pushes me down. Like he burned his fingers on me.

"If you have an ounce of respect for me," I ask him."Keep an eye out on the family members that matter."

My father looks over, and his skin looks grey in the light and rain that has started and something brews above my head.

"Daliah?"

"Just a moment." I force the words out.

"What is going on?" My father asks, swinging around to my husband.

I run. I don't look back. My heart is a hammer pushing on an anvil, a bird singing in my veins about danger, and I need to heed whatever calls me away.

Yes, I am paranoid. No question something isn't right with me. But this isn't just a panic attack or something provoked by animalistic fear of blasting energy. I can't believe that. It would mean I am sick.

It is a bare feeling that grows, and the more I stretch my feelers into my bugs and spiders, feel the world-shaking and screaming, I am sure I am right.

I follow my animals down, and they lead me to the wandering vibration and shifting air. I move careful and slow. The sentinels that I saw earlier have disappeared, and many, many feet have gone along this way. Everybody felt very, very save.

My spiders crawl through the hallway, over stone and away from the sandy tragedy playing above me.

Above me, in the sand, maybe over the crowd, something cracks.

Then I see it. Splattered, silver blood. Smeared over the ground.

I press my body against the wall. My feet almost touch the puddle and smears of blood. Slippery, and I am suddenly glad I didn't decide to wear killer heels. They'd have made noise. And they wouldn't serve me now well.  
I don't know if someone can or wants to hear my thoughts at the distance. I still send some silent alarm out in my brain, some harsh, heavy thought.

My jumping spider roams, hairs moving in the air circulation. Eyes lock on the motion. And even though spiders' eyes see colors different, they do see them. And that is all that matters when I see the soft flutter of a red scarf.

The noise above the ground and all eyes watching in anticipation that this finally ends will drown out whatever little murder and infiltration have gone on this time. And no one invited the dirty pack inside this time.

Guns. I try to count. Outnumbered by default. Since I am alone. What else can I do?

The spider lingers and clicks along. Careful. The trail of blood leads to a corpse. One of a few. Or maybe even many. But this one isn't even cold, judging by the denseness and the way the blood isn't even dried.

Hand clenching. Eyes wide open.

The color on the stripe says Eagrie. Probably saw the bullet coming but couldn't do anything about it.

The corpse with the radio is settled in between the red feet moving.

And then I recognize some of the faces. They have branded into my brain with the same intensity as Ellyn's head being impacted by a bullet or the dead eyes of a child staring at me in the flickering horror of panic.

I fought with the blond one briefly. She has a gun now. And she holds it like she perfectly knows how to use it. I attempted to throw a knife at the other one, bleeding.

Coming again to bail out their friend, and what that will do. It'll help boost whatever morale this rebellion needs.

And it will harden, and perhaps make my life a lot more difficult. I can't have that.

My hand glides over to my gun. I grip it hard. I force my feet to stand still and my breath to be steady. If I can reach the radio and buy some time I can stop this. Maybe even without dying. That would be unfortunate. I plan to reap the fruits of my work. I plan to take over, after all. Not done yet.

Not done yet. That is the thought that fuels me.

The life pulses through me again at the prospect of a fight, because violence is the only vent I know for my anger and fear.

I don't have Evangeline to clip by my side and soothe my nervous, lying, angry tongue. No one can correct my bullets or behavior now. A brief second I worry if she is even alive and if I shouldn't simply make it up into the arena. But no. No time. Everything is going on fast. This is a matter of seconds from the decision to fight. And it needs to happen now.

I have approximately two relatively clean shots before they know where I am. The silver metal lies smoothly in my fingers. Gripping the trigger.

I inhale my last steady breath and fling around the corner with my gun.

I take the two shots.

Just like in the range and the other times before, I arch my body and brace myself for the noise.

The first shot ripples through the vertebrae of the hallway in clear surprise.

It hits a bullseye. My husband and my family would be proud of the shot. A brain splatters out of a skull, rearing back by the impact right next to the blond one.

I didn't think she would be so fast to react though, because the next thing I have to do is evade her own, drawn weapon, and then fire gets opened at me.

With everything my silver essence can give, I collect whatever small thing has wings. They splatter around the corner, and as the black cloud makes the turn a mess, I take the second shot.

My knife didn't hit. Samson made me unprecise with his ripped static control. The shot aims at a leg and it at least draws blood at the impact. I hope he'll simply bleed out.

The dead Eagrie is right beside me. I take the radio and shoot, knowing I won't hit anything. The noises are deafening. But I am still sure no one can hear it up. The Bowl of Bones takes all the noise and drowns it in the cackling of silver powers and fighting.

A bullet rips through my side. The impact almost makes me stumble,  flings around. I can't even scream. Just huff a pained whine.

One more roll, one more bullet searing over my head.

I cower back behind the corner. The radio cracks. The same static that usually is in my head. I still try. My voice is dissonant and screaming.

No response. My opponents yell something else. My blood mixes with the splatters of the other dead guards down here. But I am not done yet.

And the hallway has turned into silence beside the buzzing of my bugs.

I follow weakly. I have to make it. My blood pumps and my body yells angry for a fight. Now more than ever.

Something cathartic lies in the pounding wound and the way my anger is liquid acid again, running through me and fueling me. Whatever I did. This is what I do best.

I grit my teeth.

_Oh, I am far from dead._

Stairs lead up to the edge of the arena, to seats and to the tribunes with the boxes. With so many guns you could probably shoot a good lot of the crawling sentinels I saw. Or would you move up even further and try to shoot some of the unrepentant figures, maybe take hostages? Or another assassination while we are at it?

Possibilities. I have two exits. Middle, just outside the rift in the ground or high.

I make it up the stairs, spiraling up, huffing and scrambling a little. I'm too high. I notice my mistake too late.

From my higher up platform, I see uniformed bodies like an angry hive of bees or wasps. But they die.

I focus my wavering eyes beside the panic. I could try and aim for the prince or the lightning girl. But no. My gun shoves forward aiming at a red scarf.

I don't know for sure which one of them shot Ptolemus.

Still. I aim at the blond head below me.

In the next moment, I can feel the impact of someone moving beside me.  
Gripping me in some sort of more seasoned hold. I fight back, blood pushing out of my body.

I know that there was no one beside me on the stairwell, no one beside me on the stone ranks and in the blinking light that filtered through the sifting clouds.

He's stronger than me. That isn't too hard. Red, brown-haired with something that may have been a buzzing short cut once, growing out uneven, and I am unwillingly reminded of my dead husband. A second is enough to start for him dragging the gun out of my grip.

There isn't anything except two desperate bodies flinging themselves around each other in some semblance of a fight.

I get pushed back to the bannister. My back dangerously lingers at the edge.  
A thing people should all know by now.

I don't go anymore without dragging people down with me.

And that's what I do while we still ring over in hands and feets pushing and hitting, with the smooth metal just out of my reach.

And I fall. The air sizzles beside my face, whips my hair around. But hold tight and drag him with me.

The last, unfortunate thing my consciousness realizes is that he won't get hurt at all. Because he simply blinks out of my grip and existence. Empty arms flailing, I fall too hard and too fast.

Then I hit the crashing stone and feel the bones in my ribs, my jaw, my spine break. Water and earth take me.

 


	45. Woe

_woe_

_\- a condition of deep suffering from misfortune, affliction or grief_

_-ruinous trouble_

* * *

_**T**_ he stone has martyred me beyond any recognition. I am barely blinking. Not awake.

I crashed below and lost consciousness. Knowing that my spinal cords and many other vital things had taken a hit.

A part of me is half-awake in searing agony when I regain consciousness shortly, the other lulled in by numb pain and nerves that don't feel anything anymore.

The mud around me seeps into my pores. Like a swamp, it bleeds into me with water and dirt. I can't move. I can't breathe.

I shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't be alive and I won't be for much longer. My heartbeat is trashing at my side, where the blood pours out.

I can't fight the swamp. This is, strangely fitting, I realize, my grave.

Our religion is power and we are our own gods. But where do gods go when they die? Do they implode in a million pieces and settle like stardust in a void? Are they forgotten in their endless bodyless voyage? Just as they are forgotten easily in the real world?

We tell ourselves we honor and remember the dead. But half of it is pretense, and the other half is disregard. We mourn for selfish reasons.

I just blink dizzy up a few times. It is the only thing I can do on my own. A sun blinks back in weak rays. No sounds mix into my brain. Something moves above the pit that has become my burial ground.

My eyes close again.

It would be foolish to believe my life plays before my eyes as I fade. At least not like you'd expect. My subconsciousness chooses memories and skips through them like footage of a lost day.

There is no one judging your afterlife or whatever emptiness follows. We do what we have to. We are who we are, forged by hands that are bigger than our own when we grow up.

Growing up. Children have to do that, I suppose. That reminds me of that cat.

_I haven't thought about that cat for a while. A lithe, slim feline. A black, elegant creature adorned with a collar and bells. The only animal my mother ever really liked, because cats come and go. You don't need to look after them like dogs or children. The cat doesn't like the bells. But it makes it easier for my mother to know where it goes. And it makes it easier for other people because the birds soar through the residence some days like an angry swarm or waves leaping at the piers at the river when the big ships drive past._

_I remember her finger crawling over the black, silky fur when she holds the cat too tight a second, then lets go with her ditzy, inconsequential smile to return to her sheets sprawled over the table. I remember sitting on the carpet, pulling a string over the ground to play with it. And suddenly, it is my paw on the string, and I feel the tugging leash for the first time. As soon as it starts, it ends. And the cat scowls, hisses. I try again and again, but I can't manage to do it._

_I know I should ask my father.  
_

_But my father isn't there, and so I continue tugging at the cat's head, trying to take it over whenever it is too close. It takes days. But days are blurry for a very little child. They can be millennia or a fast-paced moment._

_Time is fluent for the newborn and for the dying._

_That cat bends under my childish pressure, and I don't yet understand the nature of an animal, and I am far from gentle. A cat and a child are both stubborn and wild, and I win the fight.  
_

_"Look," I say. The cat sits still when I want to. The cat tilts the ears when I demand it. I make it move and roll and meow._

_My mother doesn't look up from her sheets.  
_

_"Look," I repeat, and the cat grows frantic under my grip. It scowls low again, black slick fur standing up, tail whipping. "Look what I can do."_

_"Not now," Is all the answer I get._

_And with the same temper as an angry feline or a scorned child possess, the cat flings itself over the table and ruins her notes and all the sheets make a flurry of paper. The cat bites into her thumb when she tries to catch it. Silver blood drips on the green carpet and her white dress.  
_

_Her eyes are small slits.  
_

_"Now you look," I say, satisfied with the result.  
_

_I am banned from the music room for months.  
_

_"Why didn't you say anything?" My father asks a while later. "You need better practice and I promise you'll be able to control all the animals you want to."_

_I don't tell him the cat didn't do it by accident. I don't tell him I made it bite my mother.  
_

_That cat disappears from the house and my memories. I don't question coming and going animals. It is normal. We use them. We breed them. We give them away and exchange them.  
_

_Wide awake at night, a part of me listens to the haunting of laughter and a piano downstairs, seeping through the walls. The other part listens to the sound of the residence itself._

_I am too small for the big bed. I drown in the sheets and still clutch them tightly with my small hands._

_The floorboards are cold under my tiny feet. I stare at the doorknob as if it will magically open by itself. If I had the power to move things with my mind, my child self ponders, tilting a head that's bearing wild strands curling. Maybe that'd help. Maybe that'd make me braver._

_Light burns in the study. My father is engaged in some talk. A big, black dog lurks around his feet. My hand ponders on the doorframe. One toe is bathed in the orange light. I watch his face. The tired eyes. The concentrated line on his brow._

_Then my foot retreats in the darkness. As fast and quietly as I can, I sneak past. I move on. If he doesn't have time to leave the room the whole evening, he doesn't have time for me now. I am taught better than to disturb my parents or anyone in the family when they have business._

_Downstairs, the laughter swells. My tiny body creeps forward shivering. But I don't want to move there. I don't want to be banned from another room.  
_   
_I sit down above the staircase and watch a small spider in the corner of the highest edge above my head on the ceiling._

_Try to sweep into it by my own, just as I have started to learn, just as I did with the cat._

_In the morning, when the stars have faded and the sky is pink and orange like a basket of fruits, I still sit by the staircase. I cup the spider in my fingers._

_Later that very same day, we get family visit. I don't look at my cousin. She is older than me. She isn't as dull as some of the others. But she wouldn't like me and my questions about spiders, would she?_

_As soon as my father moves into his study again and my mother disappears after a fruitless attempt of conversation, I lure back the creatures for further research.  
_

_Sitting cross-legged below a single cobweb created by many feets and strings, I cup the small pinpoint black creatures in my palms. They tickle me.  
_

_The hem of a green dress appears beside me, rustling. I block the way. That must be it. I look at the spiders in my hand and then concentrate on the fine, shimmering green of the skirt.  
_

_"Do you like spiders, Daliah?"_

_I look up into my cousin's face. A very, very, pretty face. A face that doesn't exactly smile, but doesn't look hostile. Straight, up, sleek dark hair, and a very shiny bit of jewelry._

_"I think I like spiders," I answer, slow, ducking my head. "I think I like snakes too. My father lets me hold them. My mother doesn't like them at all. She says spiders are scary."  
_

_"Your mother isn't a Viper," Larentia says, and she says that with enough force to cut down a tree clean._

_Instead of walking away, she smoothes over her dress and extends her hand. Motions for me to stand up. It isn't a friendly request. It is a definite offer and a demand. Like a queen would make it.  
_

_That's it, my small brain decides in hazy adoration for being noticed. Larentia is like a queen._

_And me and the spiders crawl up to follow her.  
_

I don't crawl anywhere now. I just feel something in my head, and a familiar headache spreads along with something else.

"Oh," someone else notes. "There is still plenty of things going on in her head. I can assure you."

"She's still alive. Quick."

"The gunshot first. Then her back. And all the rest."

I catch a glimmer of armor and silver hair. Of a hand that's touching me.

_Small hands, and very, very dirty nails. A lifted gun, a small nervous sound. Shoulders drawn together. A box rests to my feet, dark stinger of a scorpion shaking. A boy stands in front of me._

_"Ready? I'll do it. You got to catch it."_

_He waits, tilts his head framed by a small ray of sunlight, and his hair is as silver-grey as the pistol in my hands. "I can catch it."  
_

_"Ready?"  
_

_He makes himself bigger than he is. I swallow.  
_

_A shot whips through the air, a pang, and my fingers loosen themselves over the trigger. My hand slips. And I aim wide. Because this boy is like my brother, and I can't hurt him, even with our bragging._

I don't feel anything.

_I don't feel anything when I get swung around and lie flat on the ground. All I hear is the blood pumping through my body. Despite being younger than me by some, Evangeline has just flat kicked me on the ground and I roll like a wet burlap sack.  
_

_"That was very good," I say, swiping away blood dripping from my nose. "But I didn't expect anything else."_

_She helps me up. Her braid swings over her shoulder, tightly pulled together, like mine.  
_

_I don't need to say anything. We share some nod and continue on.  
_

I don't say anything. I couldn't if I wanted to. My jaw is still crushed. Blood has stopped pouring out of me. I lie in some rubble, dragged to the side, staring at a stone ceiling. _  
_

_Another gun, another family, another day.  
_

_Short nails, one single, a small ring on my finger. A green sleeve and a braid flung over my shoulder when I look back. Two faces watch the marks on the paper- one is scarred and calm, with hair tied back. With arms crossed behind her back. The other has eyes that look at the world as if it is a tactical map with different signs and warnings to decipher. He looks so young._

_They're both dressed in the semblance of loose pants and sturdy boots, uniforms not to flatter you much. I smell the sweat and dirt, something burned lingering over theirclothes and tainting the air in the room even after they have changed and returned. It is the smell of gunshots I know well. It is the smell of flames, of blood, ash, the smell of death. The smell of war._

_"Your footing is good." Ellyn's voice instructs. " Your aim needs some more practice, Daliah."_

_I raise my eyebrows. "My aim is flawless. I hit. What else do you want me to do?"_

_"Breathe right."_

_How would I breathe wrong? I don't breathe wrong. They are both just nitpicking on me. And here I thought in this family it could be different._

_I scrunch my face together. Ellyn takes a scraping step._

_"When you are tense, you draw your shoulder blades together. You need to stop doing that."_

_"The rest of her posture is acceptable," My husband says._ _There is that attentiveness again, burrowing through his whole face._

_"Oh," I mock. "I am so flattered my husband finds me acceptable."_

_His face flattens a little if that is even possible behind the stiff edges he presents. I find you more than acceptable most days."_

_"Maybe we should do this more often." I put the gun down slow, hand away from the trigger. My lips are twisting in some kind of grimace, wishful thinking makes it a smile. "If this is the only way for me to get any compliments."_

_"You're still mad I called you a bat?" He shakes his head. His hair is so short. If I would run my fingers along the side I would feel the shaved off stubbles. A buzzing cut for military purpose. He'll start growing it out in the months before we fight and he dies. "It was just a matter of fact."_

_"And you are an utter fool. That is a matter of fact."_

_He makes an exasperated sound. Turns half away._

_It's silent without the gun howling and our voices bickering._ _I try to stand straight, but I feel the way my breath gets caught and I am tensing up._

_Her hand touches my shoulder, a factual touch concentrated on the task ahead. I coil together, want to run off._

_My skin seems to burn where she touches me. One flat palm on the ridges of my tingling nerves, wandering between my shoulders. It is almost reassuring in the guidance process._

_I pick up the gun, take a step away from him and try to do as she tells me._

_I move a foot right, take a breath, raise my hands._

_Aim._

_Shoot._

_I hit the inner circle of the target again, bullet ripping through it._

_"Better," She praises me and pats my shoulder once before retreating._

_I scoff softly.  
_

"Better," someone says, and pulls hair out of my face with a flat and almost soft palm sprinkled with blood and dirt. I look up and for a second I can't separate Evangeline and her mother, and I am confused to who is leaning over me before her ruined, wild grey hair hangs over her side and I blink, try to catch her expression and understand it.

The pain spreads through my jaw and spine like fire. Like a grenade ripping my nerves apart. A gunshot penetrates me again and again and it doesn't stop now that the numbness does and the hands that put me back together try to hold me still-

A broken spine. Broken ribs. A shattered jaw and broken teeth.

My body reassembles slow under touches. _  
_

In truth, this all take _s_ very little time. _  
_

When my jaw starts to get fixed, I inhale, make a low his, then start to scream. Tears are welling in my eyes heavily and as much as I try, I can't blink them all away.

I stop the soft hand from the Skonos working on me.

Different pairs of eyes watch from their places. I have Evangeline on my right, my father hanging back, and even slithery Samson watches.

I can barely open my jaw while it gets mended. I still hold out one hand.

"Let me keep some of the scars," I say, barely understandable, shattered and crying. Just in more spite, probably.

It hurts so much I black out again. _  
_

When I wake up, my face is tingling. But only soft like the hands from the Skonos. _  
_

And I keep the memento, the token of this day. I will treasure it with the same intensity as the memory of the dead. I will harbor it within, a piece of glass in pressure. I will never forget it. My forte and my shield. I keep a scar and I keep the pain.

The scar is my badge to the real meaning of family.

What _does_ family mean?

Family means everything to me.

Family means valor. Duty. Pride.

Family means something I loathed.

Something I lost.

Something I missed.

Something I yearned.

Something I regained.

Family is blood, family is past.

Family is strings that weave in threads of silken lies and golden truths, unspoken pain shared and burdens shackling you to each other.

Family is all I had. And all I will ever have.

 


	46. Epilogue: Samson

_**(honestly I am not sure this is good, it is different from the stuff I planned. But I try to finish what I start lmao)** _

 

_Innate  
_

_-existing in, belonging to, or determined by factors present in an individual from birth_

_-belonging to the essential nature of something_

_-originating in or derived from the mind or the constitution of the intellect rather than from experience_

* * *

**_A_** scolding, small punctured wound reaches along the seam of my right glove. I take a moment to inspect it. It is barely visible, a fine ripping in dark leather and the smallest of threads in spindling grey.

I barely move in my seat, take another inspecting look.

This is the second pair of gloves since last month.

It is true what I told my wife. Decapitation is messy. Fights can be too. Messy, desperate hands trying to grip me. I prefer some distance between me and the looser surrendering senseless. At least enough to not get too dirty when they bleed.

They always bleed.

And I always win.

I barely move in my seat, take another inspecting look. It's a nice chair. It was easy to take. Hilarious to believe my wife wants to desperately sit in it and never came close. Even if the chirping bird irritates my eardrums in an unpleasant way. And surely enough, it reeks of the mutts, their shedded fur is everywhere. The metal inlaid with the sigil of their house touches the back of my head when I lean back. Not enough to dishevel my hair.

It is not the chair I originally wanted to be seated in, but comfortable enough until the next step. The study is empty. The big desk abandoned. I have turned the chair to the window, to get a better view over the spectacle downstairs.  Through a gap, the voices ring up in spiraling commands.

Black and green gathered in a pile of pale, angry faces, the Viper's stand to attention in the courtyard.

I don't even attempt to show an ounce of interest for any of the words that are said now. It's another speech to rally their morale after the current mishaps. 

The words get boring and tedious if you watch them from the sideline, from too far away. The words I want are the words to say. Words that slash in commands and unmistaken success.

These, now, are just words that collide with my ears but do not even reach my mind. At most irritating as the bird. Because I read the truth in their heads when I want to. And the truth is that all these self-proclaimed snakes have no teeth. Most of them have the decisive or usefulness of a wet towel.

But the day Vipers ever stop comparing themselves to their animalistic counterparts will be the day the sun doesn't shine.

With my father in law as their speaker at least, I can take what I want and when I want it. That is the least recompensation for the work I have done in the last months. It takes a while to infiltrate and squeeze out all the information you need to stage some coups and deceive people. It would be easier to simply take everything, but subtlety is in question. Or was in question. Before last night. 

Did I murder and rip secrets out of countless heads the last weeks? And did I watch cameras and keep up in contact?

Didn't I clean up good enough?

Get rid of that incompetent Viper. Keep my wife on her feet to rustle in the bushes right before Iral, make them nervous, make them focus on her. Work with that vessel of her son to keep her under control. Assuming positions and keeping the way clean and undisturbed to let the little red rats in on the night of the parting ball.

Hunt and interrogate people after their unfortunate escape.

And last night, of course, first leaving evidence strewn over the whole palace in a compromising manner. Then making the secretary write that confessional suicide note. Letting him off the hook easy with a bullet. And of course, helping to seize and decapitate Blonos.

I could write a list and it still wouldn't cover the deeds with all the inconveniences and nights prowling. All the blood, and pain- and all the begging.

It had its ups and downs, I will admit.

I am still waiting for some more appropriate compensation.

Until then I have to endure in this menagerie of stupidity and dramatic entanglements.

I lean back in my seat by the window.

Then I force my eyes to see his face, the scared, wrinkled lines, the ducked back posture, because despite the fact he speaks, and the fact that all he can think about is joy to finally have people listen after a decade, he is still mostly useless. He is still just someone to guide and command.

He just pretends to have a spine. It is as broken as the one of his daughter just a mere hour ago.

Speaking about her broken bones, stupidity and hideous pretentiousness...

My eyes wander slightly over the courtyard held by fences, with the machinery of vehicles slowly grazing and stopping beside it.

Daliah Viper isn't too far from her father. They decided to give her a new gun, the fools. A rifle that looks comically large in her small fingers.  A black uniform she owes to me just as the place she stands in now. She could have been more than that. If she hadn't struggled so long.

When I force myself to extend and creep into the cracks between her thoughts, her spine arches.

If you hadn't seen her fly down concrete ranks and smash on the ground, you'd not think it has been less than an hour. She didn't fall very graceful. It was more like a sudden splash- a slump of bones and meat breaking on the ground.

If her jaw had stayed broken, at least there'd been no words, but now it is both the never-ending circle of loathing and self-pity in her brain, mixing with the words she yells.

 _I don't get what I deserve- I don't want to feel something- I am so close- Snakes this, predators that, spiders this-_  
I blink once. Then I discard the mild exhaustion her circling brain causes.

One thing Vipers do right in their exercised disciplines and maxime: You got to keep your leashes tight. Just the right amount between pain and the simple indication of a lie your subordinate tells themselves. If they struggle and fight, all the better.

Animals struggle and fight before they bite necks and rips hearts out, after all.

I catch that thought before it leads further.

Daliah's prosaic monologues have left an unwelcome mark after too many hours of listening to it. All the Viper's and their animal talk are treading on my small rest of patience still left.

I cross my legs and watch them.

Her scarred lip quivers when she looks over to my window. Unsurprisingly she chose to keep it to spite me.

What she doesn't know could almost be amusing if it wasn't inducing something vexing in my system. Because the very truth is that every bit of damage and every scratch, bruise and scar helps to make her more alluring. Her intactness is not important. She isn't valuated by something pure. She was spoiled and rotten the day I saw her first, and she wasn't unblemished the day she had to marry that fool Macanthos.

Her head tilts just like the stinking dogs she loves so much, black hair tightly pulled back from the collar that hides her neck. I remember how it feels under my fingertips, squeezing slowly, but with too little force to end it. Just enough to hurt, to leave a grey bruise. My fingers twitch.

She never learns, not even after proposing a deal and finally surrendering.  
She vexes me to the point strangling her seems like a blessing. Every second is a mix of squeezing the life out of her, hitting her so hard I could break her apart from the inside, to finally make her understand.

I smooth over the leather of the glove again when she snarls at me.

When the Viper's have all retreated, gathered, departed, I slowly stand up. Leave the chair where I put it. I'll sit in it again in the morning, to have a better view.

The thoughts are a black storm. They whirl around the top of Archeon. I catch them and devour them if I can. Let them float by if I can't dare yet to crack into the head belonging to it.

Soaring metallic jets pour down the clouds one moment.

The lights around me fluctuate like the thoughts in the air. A flickering, bright sensation burning down my eyes and making my throat dry. Leaving something behind I want to keep. Something satisfying. Something valuable.

Then the city is left behind by most. Not careless enough, but still abandoned. Ripe for the taking, long before tonight, and it shows in the rest of discarded sentinels left behind when I walk through the hallways beyond the walls from Whitefire. Ripe for the taking and already conquered. Already taken. Already inhabited by someone that understands that this world is weak, and degenerated. And that the degeneration is tedious, a tumor made of emotional distress.  But understanding also that you can easily use the distress if you're not attached to it.

Force is the only language they all speak. Violence is a bullet in a brain and a knife in a gut, and everyone can understand the meaning behind it.

No one dares to stop me walking until I reach a door guarded by a group of guards and sentinels.

She looks pale. Not the angry Viper pale though. Not the same pity pale.

I sat by the window in the Viper chair. Now I stand by the window with Elara and watch the jets soar down silently. But not less hungry.

* * *

 

Coming soon:

 

 

 

 

 


	47. Bonus: Thistleweed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some Heron & Atara, or as we like to call it in my corner, Flowerbird. This was basically for someone on wattpad. I take this as fun practice for writing Elane and Evangeline and others later on tbh but I also really like every character I can try out. Don't take me too seriously. Like..Please don't haha.

**_I_** t's just a day in spring.

Not yet the dry, all embalming sunlight of a hot summer day that makes the air shimmer. Just a green day between soft swaying leaves, looking down to the water of the river from the terrace. Everything flows in sprouting petals around me. If I could, I'd take my shoes off to dig my feet into the ground. Just feeling the life underneath, a tickle of something I could make grow in the soil.  
Something I could make appear, swinging between blades of grass.

It could be a lazy day, but there isn't a lazy day in my life or anyone else's. Especially not when summer is hiding behind the corner and the whole silver court is approaching Summerton again. And this summer it isn't just some small events and the usual bartering and discourse. It isn't just a ball and an evening dress to impress someone.  
This one month it will be Queenstrial.

My father is in shambles since last week, and everywhere around the province things move. There are preparations to behold. Offical. Or private. Every silver house has its summer residence they have to stock up and move to.

Queenstrial.

Who doesn't want to be a princess?

We all want something from life, right? And we all wish for something, right?

But it isn't like I don't know. Even if I grew the thickest, highest tree with the most beautiful vines, or let the most deadly thorns slink out of the air.

Even if I look my best and are one of the prettiest girls that evening. Not the prettiest. There's some undisputed contention I'm not winning.

I'm just there to present. And maybe I'll marry someone watching from his seat in the garden. But I won't be a princess.

My parents have their hopes for me and a good marriage. But they aren't reaching for the stars. I don't think they can afford to try to make one of the princes marry me. Not the older one, at least.

And then...there's the war.

I look over the edge of the trees, the intricate patterns of branches clicking and moving. One grey feathered dove makes noises inside the breeze, before another answer from close by. It's soft coo's repeating.

A voice pulls me back from the treeline. I look back through the plants that grow over the stone of the terrace. Put in order and blooming in violet and yellow. Left and grown by my own hands. Because I liked the color. Over the edge of yellow, another more intense shade of green in swaying silk catches my eyes.

Green and black means Viper. They're early this year. I look at the book in my hands. The dusty words caught in a page I have read a million times. The floral print is a a little faded gold. You'd expect poetry or more words about flowers. In a sense, I suppose it is. It's easier not to tell people you read books about agriculture in your spare time.

I put it down slowly. It rests on the glass plate of the table.

The only people aware of my hiding spot are the security personnel and one or two servants. The rest hopefully never saw me pass to the forest on the terrace and my favourite spot in our home.

Now I don't look at the book or trees anymore, but still only at the arriving frames underneath , being greeted, moving on. I can see a greyish, bog dog from my vantage point on the terrace, a wagging tail disappearing.

"Are you hiding between your plants again?" A voice asks, not really mean, just a little snide.

For a moment, we both just look at each other. I see it in the way she looks back with green, narrow eyes. She looks at my sandals. Then her eyes wander quizzically over my dress right to my open hair. I look back down.  
I've grown taller than her last summer already. She's slim and fit, but short. We made some jokes about it. Atara says people will think I am just a pillar in the palace when I don't speak up.

"Maybe," I answer and shrug. I don't tell her about three units of training, a dance lesson and sitting through a lecture. This is the first time since the sun has risen I have sat down alone on my own. "But it seems I didn't hide that good."

"Your hair stuck out," Atara brushes one of the petals away from her dress. It has sprinkled the silk in a cloud of yellow pollen. "Also, I know you like being here."

I watch her fingers a moment, sharp nails in black and green, one small ring sitting on her pinky. Then I look away, and a strand of my auburn hair gets caught in the breeze. It seems reddish in between all the contrasting shades of green.

"You're early this year."

Her face turns unreadable in the soft shade of a sunbeam that sprinkles over the terrace.

"It's because my cousin has been released from prison recently and my family keeps her close. They say they cannot send her to the capital with only her mother around in her current condition."

We all have at least one unruly relative or someone you'd definitely notice when you saw them in a crowd. Most of them have scandals attached to them, but they aren't accused of multiple cases of murder and have a history of open attacks. I heard she was released a while ago.

"She's here?" I feel stupid asking that, it almost sounds alarmed. Atara looks at me like she thinks the same. "Did you bring her with you?"

Atara shakes her head, and the way she pushes her eyebrows together slightly just says enough about the way something boggles her. "She doesn't leave her room in the Viper residence, don't worry. What did I miss in the province? Tell me something interesting happened."

I sit down on my chair again and offer the other next to me right to her. "You won't believe what happened last week. We were at a dinner party, and I was wearing-"

Atara isn't really listening. Her nails click on the glass in some thoughtful motion.

I put my hand over the faded golden floral imagery, palm stretched forward, but still enough distance between us.

"Are you alright?" I know the answer to that.

She huffs defiantly and chooses not to go into details that may ruin the illusion. Then she pulls her hand off the glass plate and on her lap.

* * *

I forgot how much I liked her. I forgot how good it is to spend time with someone you like. She doesn't expect me to bow and kneel and be courteous. She isn't exactly courteous herself when she puts her head next to mine and starts whispering. She smirks, she can mock you good. Sometimes her insults are growing out of her throat unnoticed and it takes a moment before you see the harm behind the question.

She makes me laugh.

She doesn't care that I instantly take off my shoes at every private chance given.

Most days we spend together are filled with air that gradually gets hotter the more the month moves on, and there's dresses, and there's jokes. And there's explicit hard hours of trying to stand still, to never stop talking like we are taught. And fight and move like we are taught. It's in my muscles by memory.

And then there's the dancing. I convince my mother that taking lessons together or working with the Viper daughter isn't a bad idea at all. She is an acquaintance since last year, after all, and we would be around each other anyway.

"I'm taller," I offer. "I lead."

"I'm fine with that," Atara only answers, a grey flush of something uncomfortable slipping up to the clasp of her pendant. A talon.

She really tries her best. She stands straight and she knows every step. But sometimes, she thinks too much. She doesn't step on my toes, it isn't that bad. She's still poised and graceful. Her dark hair slips out a low knot on her neck, and she doesn't hold my hand too tightly while we whirl. It's just something I see in her face.

But I can't bring myself to tell her that.

"I didn't know you could dance that well," I praise her instead and feel guilty. Because she squeezes my fingers in gratitude.

Later, when the music has turned off and we changed, running around my home in the midday sun, we sit below my window, patterns drawn over the edges of glass with vines and ivy.

"I'm so glad we train together, else I'd have to be alone with my cousin and my brother," Atara says. "My uncle pesters me to take her with me wherever I go."

"Will she go with you to the Hall of Sun? In that month before the ball?" I ask. Traditionally, it makes sense to get at least one female relative with you.

"I hope not," Atara answers, huffing angry. "And Loren can't stop being an idiot since he returned. I just want..."

We all want something, right? It's fine to want things.

I push my hair back behind my shoulders, flimsy reddish-brown strands curling slightly.

"You're always welcome to stay, I think, at least for the day," I offer. She looks at me with her head tilting. I feel obliged to add some sort of joke. "We're not running off or ruining reputations, we will be fine."

"Where'd you even go?" Atara's voice is low. "A forest?"

I smile. "Maybe I'd make my own city. My own forest."

She leans forward. "Would that make you more of a Queen or a Governor?"

"I don't know." I draw my legs up, to my body, holding them. Hugging myself. "But I do know I would take you with me sorely for the inner relations, we wouldn't want war with the squirrels and birds."

And for the first time since I have known her, she doesn't smirk. She just smiles, green eyes blinking at me and the light from the window. I don't think I've ever seen anything more fragile than Atara Viper genuinely smiling. And I can feel roots of unborn trees in the ground and see sprouting, shaking branches and leaves.

* * *

She raises the doves from the trees the next time we sit on the terrace. They flutter too low over my mother's head and make her yell with something uncomposed and high pitched. The wind below the wings catches in our hair and the wings are deafening until the flight has passed. I draw up my shoulders and hide my face behind my cup so I don't laugh.

So much for staying around the Welle residence. But it isn't as if I don't see her every day afterwards.

I see Atara Viper every day for almost two months.

And she never talks about anyone else.

Even if I don't have that many friends, I still have somewhat social relations. Or used to, before everyone started buzzing around and bolting in panic and expectations.

I don't think Atara has friends. If she is friends with some of the others, she never talks good about them. We gossip about the other girls sometimes. But that is all the mention they earn.

It's training all day. Talking and fighting with her family. Loren and Daliah, her father and her uncle.

"We established I'd build a woodland society," I tell her in a silent moment, just the two of us up on the terrace, escaping the day. The water behind the treeline rushes. I just realized I never showed her the boats. Especially not the big golden one. "What about you?"

Everyone wants something, right?

"I just need to make my family look good next month," Atara shrugs it off. "What else does it matter? Do you think you'll marry next year? Some of the other girls are already deep in the betrothals. Even my cousin has a fiance, and she is _old_."

I answer with the same sort of shrug. "I guess I'll marry whoever helps the standing of my family one day."

Atara only hums once. The sun reflects on the talon clasped around her neck, and it paints a soft line along her clavicle and shoulder showing under her dress. I look away.

"Did you get that invitation? For august?"

"The fight on the first of friday? Yes, of course, I'll come with you. It's part of my duty, you could say."

Atara watches the birds and whatever creature catches her keen eyes in the sky. I watch her watch them. Just a while. The silence isn't angry. Nor very unpleasant. Just more thoughtful than most people would probably give her or me credit for.

"Do you want to see the boats?" I stretch out my hand. "I just realized we've never been down by the water."

This time, she doesn't pull her hand away and under the table. She simply takes my hand. It's soft and warm and firm. And I don't want to let go.


End file.
